


a dark fall

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Possession, can sam and i let camus have a good day?? no, rated mature just bc it's a smidgeon dark, tatiana barely knows wtf an archanea is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: The Darksphere is an ancient relic filled with unknowable magicks, capable of pulling even the strongest into corruption. Plagued with grief and misery, Sir Sirius of Valentia is far from immune to its thrall. Overcome by the Darksphere’s will and intent, he divides the continent of Archanea in two once more—this time, perhaps, for good. And, lost in the intricacies of a foreign land, Tatiana struggles to find some way to bring him back to his humanity, before he reaches the point of no return.(Art/Writing collab w/ @DT75Art on twitter, who came up with the concept of Dark Emperor!Sirius and thus the story! Illustrations are embedded in the fic)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey ny'all, sam and i are back at it again at krispy kreme and torturing camus
> 
> the fe compendium did a prompt a while back that was something like hero-villain swap, so sam drew sirius as the dark emperor rather than hardin. and needless to say. we went feral. so we decided back in like, april or smth to collab on her idea, with her doing the illustrations and much of the story direction ofc, and me doing the writing. im taking a twitter break rn due to some circumstances but go check out Sam on her social media @DT75Art on twitter and dragontamer75artblog on tumblr!! i wanna iterate again that the concept is entirely hers and im just the writing vessel so if you would like to praise the idea or such in a comment you may make, pls direct it towards her and i'll pass the comment along!!
> 
> anyway enjoy evil sirius and tatiana being.... Tatiana..... our collective wife.

It seems to Sirius that the world is unraveling.

Unraveling, utterly and completely, in Archanea, in Valentia. Everywhere he looks, there is war. Chaos. Blood. At least, this is Sirius’ own experience—his life for nearly the past decade has been naught but fighting. The War of Shadows, the Valentian War, and now, he finds himself facing what the people are starting to call the War of Heroes.

It’s been over a year.

Sirius is tired.

There is never any telling how long war will take, but Sirius never wanted to be in Archanea for so long. He’s fought so many wars the past years, and the last thing he wanted was to fight another. He never again wanted to find himself in the trenches, struggling to live. He never again wanted to spend his days maintaining his armor, his gear, his horse, because any lack in upkeep could spell out his death. He never again wanted to spend long, hungry nights nestled by a barely-smoldering fire, trying to keep himself warm by its light.

Sirius wants to be home. He feels like he’s earned his peace. Camus was a foul, proud man, too concerned with all the wrong things, but Camus is dead. Ezekiel—Sirius, for now—is a good man. He likes to think he’s fought for the right things. He likes to think he is a man who has worked to make up for Camus’ misdeeds, and who will continue to do so. He’s no craven nor villain. He’s a person who feels as though he has earned warm, happy days, spent in a warless land.

Sirius feels like he has earned that happy life with Tatiana.

This isn’t fair to her, either.

He thinks about Tatiana as he stands over Hardin, whose last bit of life is fading from his eyes. Hardin, who dies begging for his own wife’s forgiveness, wanting for even a little redemption. The rain is falling heavily upon the castle’s roof, thick and unyielding, and he hears a roll of thunder. Next to him is Prince Marth, hand trembling around his sword as he promises, yes, he will tell Nyna everything, that Hardin loved her until his dying breath. There is Princess Caeda at his side, staring down at Hardin’s body with a numb, vague expression, as though she cannot believe this is over. Outside of the room are the sounds of battle, waged by the last of Hardin’s soldiers.

And there, in Hardin’s hand, is the Darksphere.

Sirius isn’t quite sure why he picks it up. Hardin is gone now, and the orb lies in his limp, cold palm, and so he leans down and plucks it up, holding it firm in his hand, and looks down at it. He hears Marth and Caeda conversing quietly as Kris approaches them, but he only focuses on the Darksphere. He turns it in his hand, observing the deep purple shade of it. To him, it looks as though the orb is transparent, and like there is a swirling, violent fog crashing to-and-fro on the inside. It’s hypnotically beautiful, and it radiates a warmth.

Sirius likes it.

* * *

* * *

Sirius suggests to Marth that someone else should hold the Darksphere. He’ll take the Gradivus, certainly, but he feels some unease when he holds the Darksphere, or even when it’s just in his saddlebag. It feels too much like there is something sitting in the corner of his mind. It feels too much like there is someone watching him.

“I don’t think there’s a problem.” It’s Merric who assures him of this, smiling easily. “The presence of the Starsphere should counteract against any of the Darksphere’s influence. You’re probably just a bit paranoid.”

Sirius looks down at the Darksphere in his palm, watching the way it catches the dim evening light. Slowly, he twists it in his fingers, then offers it to Merric. “Well, would you care to carry it, then?”

At this, Merric laughs, almost uncomfortably. He holds up a hand. “No, but that’s just personal preference. It’ll be fine if you hang onto it, or if you wanna give it to someone else.” He tilts his head and regards the Darksphere. “I don’t see why you’d wanna hand it over to someone else, though. That thing makes its wielder impervious to any attack. It made Hardin just about immortal for a while there.”

Sirius frowns and turns his eyes from the sphere as Marth, from across the camp, approaches them. Marth stops next to him and also looks down at the sphere. Like Merric, he is smiling reassuringly. “Merric is right. You said you had a wife back home, did you not?” 

Sirius flinches and recoils, closing his hand around the Darksphere. Wordlessly, he slips it into his pocket and nods.

“I’d imagine that that is your ticket to getting back home to her without a scratch.” Marth reaches out and rests a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. To have Marth be so casual and friendly with him is odd—it feels like more than a lifetime ago that they fought, but Sirius still has the scar on his chest. “We’ll need it back when we arrive at the Dragon’s Table, but I think you should allow it to keep you safe until then. Perhaps it will give you some more ease of mind. You have been quite anxious lately, my friend.”

Sirius touches the sphere in his pocket. It’s still pleasantly warm, even through the fabric of his coat.

* * *

* * *

It’s only a couple of days later that the Archanean League finds Michalis of Macedon alive. Sirius keeps his distance from Michalis, though; he knows the man well. Well enough that, given a couple of conversations, it would be no difficult thing for Michalis to determine his identity. That sort of familiarity is what happens, after all, when you’ve shared a bed more than a few times.

The attempt at distance doesn’t work. Sirius believes that Michalis is capable of sniffing him out like a bloodhound, because it’s the same night they find him that he plunks down next to Sirius at his campfire. It is mostly Michalis who speaks, dropping a subtle hint here and there that he knows, that Sirius cannot keep a secret from him. Sirius mostly ignores him and pretends to tend to his own wounds, but he has none. Nothing is able to touch him anymore.

The Darksphere is still in his pocket. They have a month left until they reach the Dragon’s Table.

* * *

* * *

Only a few days later, Sirius starts to feel undeniably odd. It is, again, the feeling that he can only describe as someone _else_ inside of his head. Like someone watching him. It’s stronger than ever, and he finds it hard to sit still. Yubello and Yuliya come to sit with him in the evening by his fire, as they always do, and he feels unsettled. He gets up to take a round about the camp, and barely hears the children complain as he leaves.

It’s a difficult sensation to describe, but Sirius feels like he is not alone in his own body. He feels shorter of temper, more aggressive, constantly anxious. People note that he is pacing around the camp frequently, and he snaps at them. Some others note he looks pale, and he waves them off. He can’t get rid of this feeling. He hates it.

Sirius is no fool. To him, it’s obvious that the cause is the Darksphere in his possession. If he removed it from his person and stored it in the convoy, the unnerving feeling and his short temper would likely cease. That would be it.

But then, Sirius reasons that he _needs_ the Darksphere. It’s as Marth said: the Darksphere is making him impervious. He is so close to seeing this war through and saving Nyna. It would be a shame if he fell now at the hands of some mad dragons or Dolhrian generals. He is so close to going home to Valentia, to _Tatiana,_ and the Darksphere only ensures that he gets out of this alive. He reasons that he is strong enough to cope with the Darksphere poking at his mind, if that is what this is. He’s been through war, torture, the worst pains imaginable to mortals, so surely he can manage this. Besides, he is doing everyone else a service. What if he were to tuck away the Darksphere in the convoy for a weaker-willed person to find? It could ruin them.

It’s only another few weeks, Sirius assures himself. He takes deep breaths and tucks the unpleasant feelings away, deep down inside, and sweeps his cloak over Yubello and Yuliya as they rest by the fire. He pats down their soft golden hair, then lets his hand hover over his pocket where the orb rests. He can manage this for another few weeks, and then he’ll hand it over to Prince Marth.

* * *

* * *

More days pass. The feelings of discomfort and unease grow, despite how he tries to manage them. When camp is settled, he finds himself curled up in his tent alone. He finds himself cupping the Darksphere in both hands, staring down into the swirling void within, as he kneels on his cot. At his knees is a portrait of Tatiana, and resting atop that is his wedding ring on a chain. It’s customary for him to set up this small shrine to her whenever he sets up his tent. It makes him feel like she is with him.

He knows he should be focusing on her. Her picture, his wedding ring, the very thought of the love of his life. He should be focusing on her, because that is what grounds Sirius. And he feels uncomfortable because he knows this, yet also knows that he is not in control of his actions. It feels like his body is merely moving on its own, choosing to covet the Darksphere in his palms above all else. He keeps staring down into the depths of it, mesmerized, and then he is suddenly snapped back into reality.

Sirius looks down to his ring and the portrait of Tatiana, back to the Darksphere, and decides that enough is enough. He takes Conrad’s mask from its resting place atop his bag, slips it on, and leaves his tent. People stare as he moves stiffly through the camp, but none question him. He arrives at the convoy, opens up the miscellaneous items chest, and slips the Darksphere into a crook before covering it up. He shuts the chest, clicks the locks into place, and leave it there.

Instantly, he feels good. He feels lighter than he has felt in over a week, and the children note as much when he takes a small meal with them by the fire. Sirius feels free and confident, completely in control of himself, as he heads back to his own tent for the evening. There is nothing to distract him now as he props up Tatiana’s portrait against his bag, drapes his ring over the corner of it, and sits back to craft a letter to her in his mind before dozing off.

Sirius feels light as a feather. Free. The Darksphere has no thrall over him. He drifts off to sleep, content that it will not bother him anymore.

And then he snaps back to consciousness some indiscernible amount of time later in the convoy, frantically tearing through all of the chests to find the one he needs. This startles him, because he doesn’t remember waking up, nor stumbling through the pure dark towards the convoy. He doesn’t remember making the mess of tomes and staves and daggers around him. He’s on his knees, pushing things out of the way, desperately looking for just this one chest, and it startles him when he realizes he is not moving his own body. He is merely watching his hands sweep through the convoy, pushing everything aside, until he finds the chest. 

His body breathes a sigh of relief. Sirius undoes the clasps on the chest and reaches in his hand, even though he tells his arm to not do so. Uncomfortable, unsure of his own actions, he digs through the miscellaneous items, his frustration growing with each wrong thing he picks up. Sirius scowls and tosses a vulnerary over his shoulder, uncaring as it breaks against the ground, and flings a pouch of something-or-other out of his way as well.

Where is it?

His hand curls around something spherical, and triumphantly, he pulls the Darksphere from the chest. It glints in the moonlight when he holds it up to a crack in the convoy’s ceiling, and both his body and soul feel relief. He starts to wonder why he ever wanted to throw it away. He needs it, just as he needs oxygen and water and food. How else is he supposed to return home, unless he has its divine protection?

When the Darksphere speaks to him, whispering, **_‘Yes, we knew you needed us,’_ ** it doesn’t bother Sirius that much at all.

* * *

* * *

The three regalia of Archanea are old and sacred, Sirius remembers Nyna saying. He remembers the disdainful way she’d looked at Gradivus as she said this, and he understands why: he used it to behead her family, after all. But putting that disdain aside, she’d told him that no one truly knows where the Gradivus, the Parthia, and the Mercurius came from. They have simply been in the royal family’s possession since long before Archanea was even Archanea. There are rumors that they were forged by the gods’ hands themselves. Others say they are merely tools crafted by the masters. They are ancient and unknowable anyhow, and it’s seldom that they find someone worthy to wield them.

Something that Nyna most certainly did not know about the Gradivus in particular is that it talks.

It speaks in his mind, and over the years, Sirius has found that only he can hear it. Back in the catacombs of Duma’s Labyrinth, it had been the sound of Gradivus in his mind, calling to him in delight the second he’d touched the lance, that had been the final piece of the puzzle. Sirius distinctly remembers that it felt like getting run over by a raging horse when nearly all of his memories hit him at once; the pressure of it had knocked him out cold.

Gradivus has been relatively silent since Hardin’s demise, save for a little hum every now and then in the back of Sirius’ mind. Yet, since he took the Darksphere from the convoy, it has been talking as much as it can. Part of him thinks he missed the sharp, crude speech of Gradivus and he’s glad to have it back, but part of him is annoyed that he awakens in the night because it won’t stop talking. Typically, it cautions him.

_‘Put… it back,’_ Gradivus warns.

Sirius touches his pocket and turns from where he is sharpening his saber in the corner of his tent. He frowns at Gradivus, propped up in the opposing corner. “It keeps me safe.”

_‘Put it back,’_ Gradivus insists again. _‘Camus-’_

“Do not call me that.”

_‘Hell if… I can keep track of every… name you have. What is it… this time?’_

“You may call me Ezekiel.”

_‘Ezekiel,’_ it says, condescendingly. _‘Put it… the fuck… back.’_

“It keeps me safe,” he repeats, finding himself protective of the Darksphere.

_‘I was not there… to witness Hardin’s descent to madness,’_ it tells him. _‘But I know… what his attachment to the Darksphere… looked like. It was addiction. He… craved it.’_

Sirius rolls his eyes and pulls his hand from his pocket. He picks up his whetstone and drags it over the blade of his saber again, satisfied that it will be perfectly sharp as soon as he’s given it another couple of grinds on each side. “I am not addicted to it.”

_‘Would a man… who was not addicted to something… go stumbling through the night-’_ Gradivus takes a moment to hum, as though collecting more power to speak, then continues. _‘To obtain something he had… thrown away?’_

He’s starting to get annoyed. The Darksphere in his pocket almost feels like it’s burning, as though it is angry as well. Sirius scowls and drops his whetstone, then stands and turns to face Gradivus. “It keeps me safe. I need it. I will be handing it over to Prince Marth shortly. That is all.”

_‘You are no better than a drunk… who swears he has had enough of his drink… only to then desperately return to it minutes later.’_

It’s not much of a threat to a nearly-inanimate object, but Sirius snarls and throws his hand around Gradivus’ shaft. It makes a sound in his mind that is nearly a chuckle, and it only makes him angrier. Hissing through his teeth, he gives it a small shake. In his pocket, the Darksphere pulses, as though approving this. It pleases him. “I am not addicted!”

_‘It will… control you, Master.’_

“I am stronger than Hardin was,” Sirius says. “Hardin fell prey to the Darksphere because he was depressed. I have- I have no negative emotions for the Darksphere to prey upon! Besides, the Starsphere is close-”

_‘You tire of war,’_ Gradivus murmurs. _‘For nearly… a decade. Your life has been war… War, war.’_

Sirius pauses.

_‘The state of Grust… Archanea as a whole… it anguishes you. You love this land… even if you no longer claim it as your own. Tender-hearted fool.’_

As if to protest these accusations on his behalf, the Darksphere pulses again. His mind feels foggy, and Sirius winces and reels back. His hand drops from Gradivus’ hilt, but it doesn’t stop pressing him.

_‘The guilt… over what you did to the Archanean princess… It consumes you. You ruined her life… You cannot forget.’_

His hands start to tremble; his head feels light. The sensation of someone else in his body presses against him, stronger, and his head is starting to pound ferociously. He flinches and reaches up, wearily pressing a couple of fingers to his temple. It’s but a headache, he tells himself, and the heat of the Darksphere in his pocket has nothing to do with this. He’s just stressed.

_‘You mourn Rudolf. No one gave you a chance to miss him.’_

Sirius’ heart aches, suddenly, at the thought of him. Nearly wheezing, he collapses to his knees and pushes his fingers against the tarp. Beneath, he feels the soft earth moving. He shakes, and his throat feels so suddenly tight as he thinks of Rudolf’s hand on his shoulder, the rumble of his voice, the crisp curve of his handwriting. The sound of his name—Ezekiel, Ezekiel—coming from Rudolf’s tongue rings in his mind. He feels a burning behind his eyes.

_‘And I… of course… know what consumes you the most… Ezekiel.’_ Gradivus takes a pause, as though taking in Sirius’ prone state on the ground. Sirius has oft wondered if the Gradivus is capable of seeing, but the thought doesn’t really cross his mind now. _‘You miss the girl… Your Tatiana.’_

The feeling of his heart being torn in two rushes against him along with a wave of unbearable heat, and it is too much. Sirius yells and falls over to the ground, writhing as he clutches his head. Gradivus remains silent, like it is content with the damage it has done.

Sirius cannot bear it. He misses her, more than he has missed anything in his entire life. He once thought he missed the memories of his past, and that that was more consuming than anything else, but this longing is so much worse. He misses Tatiana and the sound of her voice. He misses her scent, like apples and warm clothes. He misses the feeling of her fingers in his hair, softly carding through his locks as she lulls him to sleep after a nightmare. He misses her laugh, he misses her tears, he misses her cooking, he misses her demeanor, he misses her breathless moans, he misses the feel of her bare skin.

Sirius— _Zeke_ —misses her. He misses her more than anything else in the world.

_‘You see?’_ Gradivus says. _‘These are all… negative feelings it will prey upon. Your grief, your guilt, your longing. The Darksphere… will consume you. As it did Hardin. And I… will be powerless to save you.’_

“No more,” Sirius breathes. He feels heat on his face, but this heat isn’t the doing of the Darksphere; there are tears dripping from his eyes as he is suddenly overcome with the intense urge to hold to his wife. “Please, no more…”

And then there is a voice in his mind again, but this one does not belong to the Gradivus. It is the one from the convoy a few nights before. Gradivus’ voice is bold, though soft and breathy, and it rumbles in his mind. This one is meek and rings clear, like a bell, almost uncomfortably. He gasps and clutches at his head, wincing as it speaks.

**_‘Poor boy,’_ ** the voice croons. **_‘You want her… Hardin wanted for a woman as well. But, it seems you have this woman’s love.’_ ** It stays silent, as though thinking, and continues. **_‘Cling to us, Master. We will see you through your woes. You need only hold to us, and we will ensure you find your way home to your beloved.’_ **

_‘Ezekiel.’_ Gradivus speaks up again, stronger than it ever has before. Sirius writhes against the ground, agonized as the humming resonates poorly with the chime of the Darksphere. _‘Ezekiel. Do not… listen to it… It wants to use you. Not help…’_

“And when have you ever wanted to help me?” Sirius snaps, glad when Gradivus falls so silent that its hum is barely audible. Snarling, he props himself up on his hands and glares up at the red gem in the center of the lance and spits, “When have you ever helped me? You mock me, you torment me. You have never done anything for me!”

Gradivus remains silent, then whispers, _‘I am but a tool. I do not know… how to help using my own actions. I was just trying-’_

“You were just trying to make me feel like shit,” Sirius hisses. “All these years! Since the second I picked you up, you’ve done naught but belittle me!”

_‘As if you… didn’t deserve a harsh word or two!’_ Gradivus snaps back. _‘I do not… coddle my masters! You were… a villainous man. Did you expect me to praise you… for slaughtering the royalty?’_

“I did as I was told!”

_‘Because you didn’t have the stones to follow your own morals!’_

Sirius shouts, grabs the whetstone from the ground, and flings it at the Gradivus. It hits the red gem deadcenter with a sharp sound, then falls to the ground. While it leaves no blemish, Gradivus responds with a brief, static-y hiss in his mind—a sound which he can only interpret as pure, unadulterated rage. And then, Gradivus goes quiet, leaving the tent uncomfortably silent.

The Darksphere rings in his mind again. Without the added thrum of Gradivus, the sound is nearly comforting. **_‘Poor boy… It does not understand you. You are so misunderstood. You were only following your orders, as any respectable soldier would.’_ **

“Yes,” Sirius breathes as he hangs his head. He takes a shaking breath. “Yes. It was only what I was ordered to do. I had a duty to my country.” He picks up a hand from the ground and pressed it to his forehead, blinking away the fog in the corners of his vision that might be from tears. But, what he is saying does not sound quite right—he has long-since learned that what he did was wrong. He knows it was wrong, but: “I had a duty to defend Grust. To protect them from Dolhr. To serve my king. That was what I did.”

**_‘Undoubtedly so,’_ ** the voice tells him. **_‘But, look what Lang did to Grust in your absence. And, who was it who appointed Lang?’_ **

“Hardin,” Sirius whispers.

**_‘Hardin,’_ ** it agrees. **_‘Hardin… He wanted to murder Grust. He wanted to kill your countrymen, so he put Lang in charge. A near-genocide… Starving the people out. Slaughtering them in the streets. Stealing their daughters.’_ **

Sirius grits his teeth, rage burning white in his stomach as he thinks of every home he passed by while traveling the Grustian countryside a mere year ago, before finding the League. He thinks of every kind-hearted Grustian who took him in and fed him, offered him a place to sleep, despite having so little due to Hardin’s reign. He thinks of the nervous looks on their faces, their thin bodies, the terrified looks of the parents who feared their daughters would be the next to go and sate Lang’s appetite for sex.

**_‘It was horrible,’_ ** the Darksphere agrees. **_‘Of course, Valentia is your home now. But… it did anguish you, didn’t it? To see the entirety of Archanea in such a state.’_ **

“Yes,” he breathes, still blinking. He then presses his eyes shut and shakes his head. He scowls, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the Darksphere. It rings in his mind, making a curious sound, and then falls silent when he squeezes it. “But I- _I_ will not fall prey to your pretty words or your goading, not like Hardin. I have a life to get back to, and you do not fit into it.”

The Darksphere remains silent. Trembling, Sirius places it on the opposite side of the tent before he attempts to sleep. He doesn’t feel the presence of Gradivus at all.

* * *

* * *

“Are you feeling quite alright?”

It is Belf who asks him this in the small clearing the camp has designated their training yard. Belf has always been so in tune with Sirius—with Camus. Reiden and Roberto share a concerned look from their place a few feet away. Their hearts aren’t in the training. Belf already seems ready for a break, if the way he’s wiping at his brow with a cloth is any indicator. He doesn’t remember training Belf to be so easily exhausted and weak.

He frowns. Blinks. He didn’t want to think that.

“Fine,” Sirius replies. “What reason do you have to be concerned, Sir Belf?”

Belf mirrors his expression and tilts his head as he tosses the cloth Sirius’ way. “You look pale. You’re shaky.”

Sirius catches it midair, just as Reiden adds, “It’s unusual for you.”

“How would you know what is unusual for me?” Sirius snaps.

They fall silent. Roberto, though having made no statement, murmurs an apology. It’s frustrating to him that all three can see past Conrad’s mask so easily; Belf in particular. It’s as though he doesn’t see the mask, nor the brusque persona Sirius uses as a front. It’s like Belf still sees only Camus. Some part of him wishes he knew Ezekiel.

“I am fine,” Sirius assures, though his hand does shake around the hilt of his practice saber. He can’t possibly fathom why it does.

* * *

* * *

“You look pale, _Sirius,”_ Michalis tells him the next day. There is always that note in his voice when he says his cover name: it’s mocking. But, then again, nearly every tone Michalis takes is some form of mocking. He sits down next to Sirius, crosses a leg over his knee, and smiles. “Care to share your woes?”

“No,” Sirius replies tersely.

Michalis continues to smile. “For old time’s sake?”

“We have never met before last week.”

“Oh, pardon me.” Michalis puts a hand on his chest and shakes his head, as though chastising himself. “You just look so much like a… _companion_ I once had.”

“I seem to have one of those faces.”

“One of those faces that would match his exactly, were you not wearing that mask?” Michalis studies him closely and steeples his fingers. He looks away towards the distance, where a mountain range stands tall. “I suppose so.”

Sirius is shaking, more violently than he was when Belf pointed it out to him yesterday, but it’s not by any means Michalis’ fault. He’s shaking so badly, in fact, that Yuliya had forced him to lie down in the medic’s wagon, where she could keep a close eye on him. Yuliya has been talking to him all day about something, chattering on and on, but he doesn’t recall ever speaking back to her, nor processing what she said. All day, he’s been focused on the Darksphere in his pocket, silently hoping that no one will blame his illness on it and confiscate it from him. He wouldn’t put it past Reiden to try such a thing.

_If anyone tries to take it, simply introduce their wrist to your sword,_ he tells himself. He’s been having these sorts of thoughts lately, violent and malevolent, but he’s stopped thinking twice about them.

“A shame, isn’t it?”

Sirius glances towards Michalis, away from his fidgeting fingers. He feels like he’s fighting some sort of urge, but he’s unsure of what it is. “Hm?”

Michalis continues to gaze out at the mountains. “What happened to Archanea.”

Sirius’ heart stops.

“The recovery may take years. The wound Hardin left behind will leave an ugly scar.” He pauses, then continues. “If you ask me, the continent needs to be unified. Resources should be pooled. There ought to be a ruler with an iron fist. No soft-hearted, delicate shenanigans.”

Sirius gives in and subtly moves one of his trembling hands towards his pocket. Gently, he places his hand against the Darksphere’s outline and swallows.

* * *

* * *

Sirius tries to put the Darksphere in the convoy again. This attempt comes on the heels of him snapping at Prince Marth, so uncharacteristically, during a war council. It comes on the heels of him having the passing thought of plunging his dagger into Marth’s chest. He is starting to return to his earlier suspicion that the Darksphere is having a negative effect on him, and he resolves that he will not go scrounging through the convoy for the sphere again.

But separating from the Darksphere causes him physical agony this time.

He lies on the ground in his tent, mask and coat discarded, and writhes in agony. His whole body is cold, and a sensation like needles stabbing into his flesh coats him. The cold thrums in the scars that decorate his body, and with that pain comes the flooding of memories he never wanted back: whips on his back, red fire pokers pressed against his open palms, knives slowly gliding over his limbs. His head pounds, as though there is a raging bull slamming against his forehead. Sirius feels the need to vomit, but no bile rises in his throat.

**_‘Hold to us,’_ ** he hears the Darksphere whisper to him from afar. **_‘Why would you abandon us…?’_ **

“I won’t be-” Sirius rolls onto his stomach and grips the tarp, panting and wheezing as the ice-cold world spins around him. The cold is so, so much, and he wishes that what he felt desperate for was a fire, but no. It is only the Darksphere. “I will not be preyed upon by you!”

The sound in his mind is reminiscent of a person clicking their tongue. **_‘We protect. We weren’t aware that you craved demise. You truly wish to leave your wife a widow, never knowing what became of you?’_ **

Fear consumes him. He grabs Conrad’s mask and stumbles to his feet and out of the tent, taking long strides towards the convoy as he adjusts the ceramic over his face. He’s shaking, more violently than ever, as he gingerly picks through the supplies.

“Sir Sirius?” It’s Michalis’ voice from behind him, sounding almost genuinely concerned. “What are you-”

“Leave!” Sirius pauses only momentarily in his scrounging, annoyed when his body starts to tremble more. “I’ve no patience for you!”

There is silence from Michalis, then the sound of his footsteps heading elsewhere. Sirius goes back to his search, and within two minutes, he has the Darksphere back in his hand. He squeezes it, breathing heavily, and his shaking gradually subsides. His head feels clearer. The prickling cold is gone, replaced with a gentle warmth.

**_‘We knew you’d return,’_ ** the Darksphere whispers. **_‘And we would have it no other way. No one else is worthy of us. None could use us like you could, Master.’_ **

Sirius lets out a trembling breath and pulls the orb closer, pressing it to his chest. The sickness is leaving his body. He doesn’t know why he ever tried to abandon it. It’s far better to have the ease of mind it gives him than to feel so cold, so weak. It’s far better to have a guaranteed return to Valentia and Tatiana.

He won’t let the Darksphere go again.

* * *

* * *

**_‘Do you think about what he said?’_ ** the Darksphere asks one night. **_‘The Macedonian king, that is.’_**

Sirius is trying to sleep, and he is nearly there. The presence of the Darksphere sits on the edge of his consciousness, gently probing at him as he drifts off. It feels almost comforting to have it there, rather than just the terrifying emptiness that comes with sitting alone with his thoughts. So he responds, mumbling in his half-asleep state, “How do you mean?”

**_‘The state of Archanea,’_ ** it presses. **_‘The state of Grust. We know you think about it.’_ **

Sirius lifts a hand and drags it down his face, then turns on his uncomfortable cot. Passingly, he thinks of his bed back home in Rigel. He wonders if Tatiana is comfortable in it on her own. “Hm. Yes.”

**_‘Do you think about what he said regarding unifying the continent?’_ ** The Darksphere hums in his mind, reassuringly. The sound is so nearly like the lull of Tatiana’s voice when she hums a Rigelian folk song in the night that he wonders if the Darksphere picked it from his memory. **_‘Master?’_ **

Unifying the continent. Restorying glory to Grust. Feeding the people, keeping them safe, healing the scars Hardin left behind. The thought is honestly appealing. Grust needs him. It needs him. It needs him desperately, to fix the damage Lang left in his wake. It deserves him.

The Darksphere murmurs to him, saying, **_‘We think you should consider it. Return Grust to its glory. Bring peace to Archanea. You have known war for so long; ensure that peace is all you ever again know.’_ **

At this, Sirius opens his eyes. He grunts and sits up in his bed, blinking blearily as he regards the Darksphere sitting a few feet away. It glows dimly, a very vague lightsource in the dark. Unconsciously, he reaches for it and picks it up, holding it in front of his face to observe the entrancing swirl of its insides. “What?”

**_‘We mean that you are the only being powerful enough to do it. The only one powerful enough to fix everything. This world can only rely on you, Master.’_ **

There is a swelling of pride in his chest for a moment, and then he blinks and grits his teeth, squashing it down. He’s only a man, and he is no royalty at that. He is a servant, not a ruler. All of this is just the Darksphere trying to pull him into a sense of grandiose, and he knows better than that. He doesn’t want to rule anything.

Sirius needs the Darksphere to return to Tatiana, but he won’t fall prey to it.

* * *

* * *

Yuliya and Yubello cling to his hands but a day later, trembling and stiff as they stand atop the crest of a hill. Below them is a ruined village, smoldering in the wake of the Dolhrians. Distantly, Sirius hears the sharp ring of someone screaming in the ruins. He swallows and pulls the children closer to him, gently urging Yuliya’s gaze away from the wreckage by turning her head into his coat. He looks down upon this tragedy: the collapsed buildings, the remnants of the fires, the corpses in the streets. This village is—was—barely any more than a stretch of houses and shops.

And it’s gone, likely on someone’s whim.

From behind, he hears Marth murmur, “Tiki, don’t look,” as Reiden says, “Gods above, what has the world come to?”

A wind carrying the scent of ash and decay blows past Sirius. He hears Yubello whisper, “Do you think they suffered?”

Sirius stares down at the ruins, fixing his eyes on the visible corpse of a person, holding a child’s body close. His lips twitch, and he can’t bring himself to say that if they didn’t suffer at the Dolhrian’s hands, they certainly suffered in life at the hands of Hardin. He may have starved them, taken their young to war. If not the Dolhrians, then Hardin.

And Nyna.

Sirius recoils at this sudden thought and blinks, briefly distracted from the razed village. He furrows his brow and lingers on this thought, and it clicks in his mind: Nyna is equally at fault. Nyna made Hardin miserable. Nyna did nothing to stand in the way of his wrath. Nyna let the people suffer. Nyna’s actions are just as despicable as her late husband’s.

Somewhere in the corner of his mind, a voice reminds him that, no, Nyna is kind-hearted. Nyna must have been doing everything she could—she must have tried. There is no reason to hate Nyna. They are in Archanea to save her.

But even without the Darksphere coaxing him on, Sirius accepts this soured view of Nyna. She left a scar on Archanea—on _Grust_ —just as Hardin did. He cannot forgive her.

“I do not think so,” he lies to Yubello, though his lips are pulled into a frown. The wind continues to carry the rank scent of ruin. “Even if they did, I will ensure no one suffers like this again.”

* * *

* * *

Gradivus speaks to him for the first time in a week the next night.

_‘The Darksphere… it seduces you,’_ Gradivus tells him. _‘Ezekiel!’_

Sirius cups the Darksphere in his palm, once more gazing upon it as he kneels in the middle of his tent. The portrait of Tatiana and his ring both sit in front of him, but he no longer feels guilt for sharing his focus. He can have both Tatiana and the Darksphere. He knows he can. He has the control.

The thrum of Gradivus in his mind scarcely catches his attention, even as it continues speaking. _‘Ezekiel, please. I am… sorry. I am so… sorry… for my behavior. Ezekiel… Think of her.’_

“I am,” Sirius assures. Reverently, he sets the Darksphere down, then picks up the portrait of Tatiana. Despite seeing over a year of war and travel, he has kept it as pristine as possible. When he picks up his ring, the chain it hangs on slips over his fingers. He runs a finger over the smooth metal and tilts his head. “She deserves a safe world. Violence and misery always spread from place to place. Misery in Archanea will only flow to Valentia. Misery in Valentia will only flow to Archanea. It’s a cycle.”

_‘Do not take matters… into your own hands,’_ Gradivus warns. _‘Ezekiel… Give the Darksphere to the prince. There is but… two weeks until you arrive at the Dragon’s Table. I promise… to keep you safe. My restorative powers are not as grand as… the Darksphere’s gift of invulnerability, but-’_ Gradivus falters, almost sounding sheepish. Sirius has never heard it take this tone, and it’s enough to pull his attention from the sphere and the portrait. He glances over his shoulder to Gradivus in the corner. _‘Ezekiel… I care for you… as I imagine humans care for their loved ones. I want you to return… to Valentia. To Tatiana. Trust… in me, my friend. I will see you through.’_

Never, ever, has he heard the Gradivus lay what he assumes is its soul bare. He frowns and stands, approaching the lance. Its red gem gleams in the light of the oil lamp as he moves towards it, almost like the gleam of a person’s eye. Sirius stands before it, awkwardly letting one of his hands over its blade. Were it a person, he would like to touch its shoulder. He would like to convey some gratitude for this honesty.

“You speak kind words, friend,” Sirius says. Deciding it is the closest thing to touching a shoulder, he brushes his fingers just below the red ribbons adorning it. “It’s truly taken you so many years to be so honest?”

_‘Ezekiel.’_ Gradivus’ voice is small and grave. _‘Please… Listen to your elders. Abandon the Darksphere. My healing… it can-!’_

“I owe you something in return for this honesty,” Sirius says. He pulls his fingers away and inclines his head. “You too deserve a world where no one need use you to draw blood.”

A glimmer of light rolls over the red gem, reminiscent of a concerned flash in an eye. _‘Ezekiel!’_

“The Darksphere has no hold over me,” he assures, taking a step away. “Trust in me, Gradivus. I will make a safe place for everyone.”

Gradivus is silent for a long, long while. Its presence in his mind dims; he believes that it is thinking over something. When it speaks in his head once more, it whispers, _‘I see… the depravity in your eyes even from this distance, Ezekiel.’_

Sirius frowns. What does it know?

* * *

* * *

**_‘There are still government officials back in Archanea,’_ ** the Darksphere muses to him later. **_‘Clergy, magistrates, generals.’_**

“So there are,” Sirius agrees. He is sitting at the edge of a smoldering campfire. The camp is quiet and empty, save for Roberto and Belf at the far end of it, keeping watch as everyone else sleeps. Crickets and cicadas echo around, though the fire’s smoke keeps them at bay. On either side of him, heads on his thighs as they sleep, are Yubello and Yuliya. He has a hand on Yuliya’s head, softly stroking her hair.

**_‘They did naught to stop Hardin either,’_ ** it tells him. **_‘No more than Nyna did. Some of them encouraged Hardin’s onslaught. Some of them were overjoyed to bring the noble Grust to ruin.’_ **

Sirius scowls. In his pocket, the Darksphere pulses in response to his anger. “And they still live?”

**_‘Hardin is cold in the ground, but they still remain. Remnants—supporters—of his tyranny. Does that sit well with you?’_ ** The Darksphere takes a pause, then asks, **_‘What name do you go by? We have been so rude to spend these past days with you, only to not ask.’_ **

On this, Sirius lingers. Certainly, Camus is not his name. Camus is a craven, and a dead man at that. But, Ezekiel is too intimate. Too soft and dear for him to give the Darksphere, no matter his trust of it. So he wets his lips and whispers, “Sirius.”

**_‘We think this is an excellent choice,’_ ** the Darksphere murmurs. **_‘Let Camus stay dead. Let Ezekiel rest only on the tongue of your beloved. We will know you as Sirius.’_ **

“You know my thoughts?” he asks. Under his hand, Yuliya stirs. Soothingly, he runs a hand over her hair and shushes her.

In his pocket, the Darksphere vibrates in time with a rumble in his head. The action and sound seems like a giddy laugh. **_‘Oh, Master Sirius._ **

**_‘We do know everything.’_**

* * *

* * *

Since Hardin’s fall, two weeks have passed. They’re halfway to the Dragon’s Table. Sirius feels that all of his odd symptoms have stopped, and Yuliya points this out as well.

“You’re not shaking anymore.” She pushes a hand against his forehead. He knows this is less for any actual temperature-checking, and more because she likes when he lowers the mask and lets her look at him. She stands on her tiptoes atop a stool as she checks him over. In the corner, Yubello reads a book. When Sirius looks to the boy and smiles, he smiles back.

Sirius turns his attention back to Yuliya. “Am I not?”

“Nope. You aren’t running hot anymore, either. And you’ve stopped mumbling when you talk. Belf thinks you look better, too.” Yuliya pulls her hand away from him and lets him push Conrad’s mask back over his eyes. He secures it and looks up at her as she hops down from the stool and beats out her skirt, as though her clothes aren’t in need of a good washing regardless. They’re all filthy from the march, but they’ve adjusted to it. “I’m a medical genius, right?”

“Yes, certainly, my lady.” Sirius offers her a hand when she reaches for it, allowing her to turn it in her little hands. He is still having some difficulty adjusting to seeing the twins at this age of thirteen; the last he saw them prior to the war, they had been no more than eight. Much smaller, squeakier. But, they’ve grown to the point where Yuliya has shot up an inch or so in the past year, and Yubello’s voice is starting to crack.

“What are you going to do after you save Queen Nyna, Camus?” Yubello asks. He winces when Sirius gives him a pointed look, and rectifies his statement with, “I mean Sirius, of course.”

Sirius feels a burning anger in his stomach when Yubello says Nyna’s name. The Darksphere, in his coat as always, vibrates, as though purring. He can hardly stop his sneer, and says, “I have been thinking lately. Perhaps it is not me who is meant to save her.”

The twins are quiet, and then Yuliya says, “Huh?”

“She does not need me,” Sirius says, gently pulling his hand from Yuliya. “I’ve heard Linde grew quite close to the princess over the past years. Surely, a sorceress of her capabilities with that kind of relationship to Nyna can save her.”

“Maybe.” Yubello gets up and walks over to Sirius, then takes one of his hands. Growing as Yubello may be, his hand is still only half of Sirius’ own size. “But, you told us months ago that you came here for us _and_ Lady Nyna of Archanea.”

“You said,” Yuliya interjects, “that you had an obligation to Lady Nyna because of what you did to her. That you owed her this for taking her family from her.”

That was what he said, yes. What he said before he had the Darksphere to guide him. Nonchalantly, Sirius waves a hand. “Never mind what I said before. Mind what I say now.”

Yuliya looks concerned. Yubello has turned his head away. But, they both scoot closer to him when he opens his arms, and they look happy enough when he puts his hands on their backs in a small embrace.

They don’t need to know that he plans to have Nyna’s head. No one does.

* * *

* * *

Sirius has had the Darksphere for seventeen days when he decides to return to Archanea. The decision comes suddenly, after the Darksphere reminds him once more of the guilty back in Pales. Those who are still loyal to Hardin, and are only still alive because Hardin did not lead them to the slaughter. Thinking about them makes his skin crawl, and he knows he cannot allow them to do as they please any longer.

He feeds a carefully crafted lie to Prince Marth, something about a “bad feeling,” an urge deep in his gut that tells him to return to Pales. He explains there are still followers of Hardin there, and that he feels he must go back to defend the populace from them. He speaks some truth: the civilians of Archanea have truly suffered enough, and he is not about to let them bear any more pain.

Sirius is met with confusion from Prince Marth, Princess Caeda, and Kris. (“But you came here for the queen, you said,” Kris reminds. “What happened?”) There is a tightness in his stomach as he explains that Linde is more than capable of rescuing her, and that more than anything, it is the innocent civilians who matter. And, despite their confusion, they give him permission to leave. He feels Caeda’s eyes on him, wary, as he hands the Darksphere over to Marth, but he doesn’t regard her. She’s too sharp for her own good.

Sirius catches Michalis watching him on his way out of the tent, and he thinks he sees him frown. For what purpose Michalis ever smiles or frowns, Sirius doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. Yubello and Yuliya wish him well, though visibly confused as his early departure. He reminds them to stay away from the frontlines, then invites them to see him in Archanea when the fighting is done. They send him away with hugs.

Others give him plenty of confused looks as he pulls down his tent. It’s nightfall by the time he’s prepared to leave, though, and so it is not many. The children once more wave to him from their tent, pitched close to Ogma’s. He feels Belf’s eyes on him as Sirius takes his horse and leaves the camp; Reiden and Roberto’s eyes follow him as well. Sirius pays them no mind and makes for the forest, leaving the Archanean League as quietly as he joined it.

And then he waits.

He waits, silently, in the dark just outside of the camp. He watches over the course of hours as more and more retire to their tents, and he memorizes the patterns of the guards patrolling the perimeter. Sirius waits, patient, until it’s early in the morning and the League’s camp is dead-silent. He leaves his bag and cloak in the crook of some roots, ties the reins of his horse close to the trunk of the tree, and makes his move.

He slips from the trees towards the stretch of tents. It’s harder to pick out Marth’s than it normally is to pick out a commander’s lodgings. Prince Marth sleeps alone, but he has no larger a tent than anyone else, and it sports the same dull, canvas fabric as the others. But Sirius does not need to know exactly where it is, because he feels the thrum of the Darksphere’s energy, intentionally reaching for him as they planned. He stays in the patrol’s blind spots and finds himself in front of a tent, next to Princess Caeda and Catria’s. It’s undeniable to him that the Darksphere is inside. He’s grown accustomed to its energy. Grown to have affection for it.

He needs it.

Covert operations have never been his specialty, but he’s had to move silently in dangerous situations enough times in his life that he manages. Sirius pulls the flap of the tent aside, glad that the opening isn’t facing the moon and its light; he doesn’t know how light of a sleeper Marth is. Perhaps the slightest sliver of moonlight could wake him, and he doesn’t believe that he nor the Darksphere could come up with a viable excuse as to why he’s skulking into the prince’s tent in the night.

Sirius slides in and lets the flap fall, silently, behind him. Marth is asleep on his cot, though his sleep doesn’t appear restful. Sirius can sympathize; no general sleeps well during a war, not when they have so much weight on their shoulders. He feels bad, he does, as he approaches the corner of the tent. He chooses his steps carefully, but finds himself fortunate. The tent is pitched on smooth, even earth, and the tarp doesn’t crumple under his boot.

The Binding Shield rests in the corner, with four of the five gems pressed into their designated places. Sirius frowns and crouches down, smoothing his fingers over the groove where the Darksphere should rest. He’s heard that placing the gems into the shield takes some amount of time, perhaps including some ceremony. It doesn’t look like they’ve set the Darksphere in just yet, and he’s glad for it. He’s certain he could pry it from its place, but he hasn’t the time nor desire.

Further to his fortune, he finds a cloth sack just at the foot of the shield, and it hums when he picks it up. **_‘You return to us,’_ ** the Darksphere whispers. _**'**_ ** _We knew you would.’_ **

Sirius does not respond. He cradles the bag in his palm, casts a glance to the sleeping Marth, and it feels as though lightning races up his spine. For a moment, he pauses and blinks, thinking about what he is doing: Abandoning the army, leaving Nyna possibly for dead, betraying Marth’s trust, and planning to go and- and do _what_ to the Archanean government?

What is he doing?

Sirius knows this isn’t right.

And then, just as he is prepared to put the bag back down, there is a pulse of energy from within. Sirius finds himself outside of the camp what feels like a moment later, tucking the Darksphere into his saddlebag before he mounts his horse. The doubts are gone from his mind, and so are the uneasy feelings creeping up his spine. He feels silly for having questioned himself; doubt is the sort of sentiment he should discard.

For the good of Archanea.

* * *

* * *

It’s faster, traveling on one’s own rather than with a large army. Alone on horseback, Sirius arrives back in the country of Archanea in only five days, and he is in Pales only a day after that. By this time, he imagines that Marth’s company is coming close to the Dragon’s table. He wonders if they’ve sent anyone after him; if they have, they haven’t caught up. Undeniably, they’ve realized the Darksphere is gone, so he wonders if they have some sort of plan to defeat Medeus without it. If they could find the Falchion, there’s a chance that needing a completed Binding Shield would be unnecessary. Sirius suspects that whatever remains of Gharnef possesses the sword, and that with the Starlight tome Michalis had on his person, Gharnef won’t be much of an issue.

He has nothing to feel bad about.

The city of Pales is quiet when he enters, despite it being midday. The people in the streets move in a way that he would deem fearful, looking to and fro as though they are expecting to be arrested by the military any second. As he walks through the streets, Sirius reaches up and dislodges Conrad’s mask and tucks it into the inside of his cloak, hopeful that this will alleviate any anxiety the people may have about a masked stranger wandering their city. He has no fear of being recognized here; it wasn’t often that Camus ventured anywhere in Pales besides the Millenium Court.

Speaking of the Court, he stops in the middle of the road and stares up at the castle stretched before him in the distance. Horses and wagons move around him, and he can sense people staring at him oddly. He puts his head down and keeps walking, subtly pulling his cloak forward to cover the saber at his side. Gradivus, its head bound tightly in a cloth, is slung over his shoulder. He’s prepared, but he doesn’t want the innocents to fear him.

A humming starts in the back of his mind as Gradivus prepares to speak. Lowly, it asks him, _‘Truly… you plan… to do this?’_

“They deserve it,” Sirius responds.

Gradivus falls silent before uttering, _‘The only comfort… I take in this… is that you are no longer you. The man I know… would despise himself for this.’_

“I am perfectly in my right mind,” he snaps. “Silence!”

Gradivus hums once more, quietly, and then its presence vanishes from his mind. Sirius doesn’t know why it has to be so insistent on calling him depraved, insane. He knows that he is in his right mind. There is nothing off about him, not like there was about Hardin. Hardin, under the influence of the Darksphere, changed even physically. Sirius looks exactly like himself, and he feels like himself. He’s in control. The Darksphere in his pocket is merely a tool to keep him safe.

Sirius keeps walking, ever closer to the palace. The crowds in the city aren’t that large, and he imagines people are still getting back on their feet after Hardin’s fall. He has seen soldiers milling around, but there is no ruler in Archanea at the moment. Pales is normally a bustling trade city, but now it’s so quiet. Were it that the crowds were loud, he would have never heard the quiet sobbing of a woman, hunched down on the porch of a small home.

He stops.

**_‘Keep walking,’_ ** the Darksphere encourages him. **_‘We haven’t time for one girl.’_ **

“You do not,” he tells it. “I do.”

The woman is thin, and her head rests upon her knees as she cries. A mess of curly, dark brown hair covers her face from sight, but he can see her shoulders trembling. There are pots of flowers on the porch of what he presumes is her home, but they are wilting, as though they haven’t been watered in a while. Sirius takes a few steps towards her, but it isn’t until he is standing directly over her that she looks up. The warm, dark skin of her face is streaked with tears, and her brown eyes are rimmed with red. She looks at him, wary, and then away.

Sirius inclines his head towards her. “May I be of service to you?”

The young woman looks up at him, sniffs, and turns her head back down. “Soldier?”

Sirius looks to the palace, only a half-mile in the distance. “Not of Archanea. I mean you no harm.”

The tense look on her face softens a little, but she still doesn’t look pleased to see him. Nobody is ever pleased to be caught crying, but he doesn’t know what this woman was expecting, doing it out on the stoop of her home in the middle of the day. She swipes her tongue over her lips and casts her eyes up towards him. “You never know with the soldiers, these days.”

Sirius extends a hand towards an empty space on the porch next to her, and she scoots over. He removes his weapons, props them up against the porch, and settles down. He sits and watches people pass by them.

“You never know which ones are still loyal to the Dark Emperor,” the woman says thickly. “These soldiers are still roamin’ the streets, like there’s nothin’ wrong. It ain’t like they’re gettin’ paid right now, so I imagine they’re just doing their jobs out of the goodness of their hearts, but I- I can’t stand that uniform.”

“Hardin’s soldiers did something to you,” Sirius guesses.

The woman quirks her lips in a wry smile and gives him a side glance. “Hardly anyone in this city who hasn’t been fucked over by Hardin and his loyalists. It’s hard to feel safe, knowin’ that some of his biggest supporters are still alive and well up in the Court. For all we know, some of these soldiers are still workin’ for them.” The woman falls silent and drapes an arm over her knee. Her voice lowers. “My husband hated what the emperor did to this city. But he stayed quiet ‘bout it, ‘cause he knew that the soldiers would take anyone they knew was speakin’ bad about Hardin.”

Sirius can imagine what happens next in this story. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his handkerchief, and offers it to her wordlessly.

The woman takes it, but only wrings it in her hands. Her expression turns angry, and she spits, “My Will says one little thing ‘bout how it’s not right for Hardin to execute people for speakin’ up, and the army is at our door the next morning. I don’t know if he’s dead, or if they locked him in the dungeons. I can’t find out, ‘cause nobody will let us into the castle to check. ‘We’re waiting for Prince Marth of Altea to get back,’ they say. ‘With the queen,’ they say.” Her expression gets angrier. “Wait for the queen to fix this? Ha! That woman did nothin’ to help us when her husband was goin’ on a rampage, so why should we wait for her to come back?”

A small voice in the corner of Sirius’ mind reminds that there was nothing Nyna could have done about any of this, but Sirius brushes it aside. He looks back up towards the Millenium Court and narrows his eyes. With a grunt, he pushes himself up from the porch and reaches for Gradivus. “What is your name, madam?”

The woman warily eyes Gradivus, then him. Again, she licks her lips. “Roe.”

“Roe.” Sirius descends the porch and slings Gradivus over his shoulder again. He holds his saber by its straps, wrapped over his knuckles. “I was just on my way to the Millenium Court right now. I will make sure to inspect the dungeons and search for any survivors of Hardin’s executions.” Sirius pauses. “Any way I may identify him?”

Roe points to her cheek, then drags her finger up towards her nose. “Scar, right here. War wound.” She frowns and shakes her head. “You’ll never get in. The magistrates and the remaining military dogs have that place locked up tight. They know they should be scared of the public, so they’re holin’ themselves up ‘til Prince Marth comes to save their asses.”

Sirius holds up his saber. “I have this to fix that problem.”

She snorts, shakes her head, and then looks back up at him. He watches as she squints, studying his face more closely, and then something like recognition flickers in her eyes. Roe looks to be in her late twenties—younger than him, but plenty old enough to recall the Grustian-Dolhrian occupation of Pales. She presses her lips and gives a tiny nod, then whispers, “I never saw you.”

Sirius nods back.

**_‘Do you see?’_ ** the Darksphere asks as he continues to walk. **_‘Prince Marth assumed that the tyranny of Hardin’s rule was over with the fall of the emperor. But, no… We know it lives on. His loyalists keep to themselves up in the palace. They’ll attempt to carry on his will.’_ **

“‘Tis not as though I needed further convincing,” Sirius says. “But she renewed my conviction. I cannot let those who would do such things rule over these people.”

Silence, and then: **_‘And are you ready to do as needed?’_ **

“Of course.”

When Sirius arrives at the castle, he hopes he will not have to immediately kill. He has a specific list of people he wants gone, and mere palace guards are not on it. But, the gate’s guards are loud, brutish, and they mock him and his request to enter. The only thing that gets them to quiet down is when he swings Gradivus off of his back, discards the wrapping, and slams the longest prongs through their necks. They fall, choking on their own blood, and Sirius steps over their bodies and towards the gate. He notes that there are far more people screaming in the courtyard in front of him than there are in the city behind. In fact, when he looks behind, he thinks he sees some awe in the faces of those watching.

Sirius will set them free.

He has no qualm with the servants, nor the common soldiers. He walks through the courtyard and sends all manner of people scattering, but he doesn’t turn the Gradivus on them. He looks for any sign of defiance, but finds none here. There are soldiers and guards here and there who start to approach, but as soon as their eyes fall upon his lance, they retreat; he has a hard time deciding if this is smart or spineless.

It’s been a few years, but Sirius recalls the interior of the castle well. He occupied it for two years, after all. He knows the layout of the floors, and so he makes his way through easily. It helps that the halls are nearly empty—he thinks that warning has spread through the castle as fast as it possibly can. This is beneficial to him; there will be less servants caught in the crossfire. However, it is also detrimental, because now he’s going to have to go through the whole castle and weed out every loyalist, one by one.

That’s fine. Sirius has time, and Sirius has patience.

_‘Stop,’_ he hears Gradivus murmur. _‘Ezekiel… Ezekiel…!’_

“It is for everyone’s own good,” he assures it. “Trust me.”

It is, of course, Hardin’s military officers who fall first. Sirius recognizes some of them from his time as a Grustian general, during business abroad. He knows most of them to be crude, boisterous men who prefer their wine and women to morality. He feels no guilt in sending them to their graves as they come to him, one by one, howling battle cries and attempting to strike him.

**_‘You needn’t worry about your body, Master Sirius,’_ ** the Darksphere assures. **_‘You need only fight. Let us defend.’_ **

The Darksphere’s ability to protect him is nothing new, but it does amaze him every time. Every commander that comes to him, sword drawn, charges towards him uselessly. Sirius could strike them all down easily, but he decides to entertain them. He decides to fill them with hope, if only so he can watch it die from their eyes in mere seconds.

So, he lets them all have a fair chance. He lets them strike him. Each one brings their sword down on his shoulder, thrusts it into his chest, swipes for his neck. They smile, each time, when their sword makes contact, and then he watches that light in their eyes turn to horror as the blade shatters against him. Sirius watches them fumble in confusion and terror before he strikes back.

There is blood on the floral wallpaper when he is done with them.

He thinks he has cleaned most of them out by the time he arrives at the military wing. Six remain, standing guard in the hallway. Five men, one woman. He comes down the hall, curious if these last ones will entertain, but they only employ the same strategy as their peers. They come at him with battlecries and desperation, shouts of “For the emperor!” on their tongues, and he sneers. He stands, feet planted firmly on the ground, and swings the Gradivus in a wide circle. A force comes from the blade as it moves, and the soldiers shout as they are blown back. Some stay standing, but some go sprawling to the ground in a heap of limbs.

This is too easy. Sirius wonders where his fun is.

“You dog!” the woman shouts as she gets to her feet. “Prepare to die!”

“‘Twould do you well to take your own advice, my lady,” Sirius advises.

She pulls a second blade from her belt, sneers, and rushes him. Sirius finds himself impressed, despite it all; he’s seen few capable of double-wielding. She’s willowy and quick, much smaller than him, and she uses this to dart into his blind spots with ease. It is to no avail, however, because each time she jabs at him with a rapier, it only bounces off of him. Sirius swings Gradivus in a circle again, hoping to catch her legs at the least, but he hears her grunt. In the corner of his eye, he sees her leap straight up, and the blade of Gradivus skims the bottom of her boots.

“You don’t deserve that weapon,” she spits as she lands. Again, she brandishes her rapiers, and he sees lightning start to dance through them. “I recognize you now: Camus the Sable. You stole everything from Archanea!”

Something in his stomach lurches. Sirius grits his teeth. He lashes out with another swing, and just the shaft hits her in the side. A pronounced “OOF” bursts from her, and she goes sprawling. He rears the Gradivus back and thrusts it towards her, but she’s recovered her balance quickly. She lunges away, but he still draws blood. He misses her, but the general behind her had been charging in at just the wrong moment. He finds himself on the end of Gradivus’ blades, purely by accident, and he makes no sound. Sirius grunts and pulls the lance back, watching the man unceremoniously flop to the ground.

Five left.

“Grustian dog!” the woman shouts again. Sirius holds Gradivus up and looks around, but doesn’t see her. And then, he hears the crackle of electricity from above and looks up. The commander is flying towards him, blades out in front of her. Sirius hisses and reacts, but he’s too late. She would have gotten him directly in his eye, were it not for the Darksphere. From his pocket, it pulses and makes a ringing sound, and she is thrown back with a shout. She lies there on the ground, crumpled in a heap, and he wonders if she’s dead yet.

The four other men charge him, uncaring of their comrade. They attack, seemingly with the mentality of “He is one man; who is he to stand against four?” Sirius thinks them fools. All of them, fools. He has brought armies to their knees, and four old men are nothing before his might.

It is boring, this fight. Sirius dodges back and forth, easily weaving between their strikes as they swipe and slash at him. If he makes a misstep in his unfamiliarity with infantry battle, the Darksphere covers for him. The places where the blades collide with him only tingle, leaving no damage. He allows the soldiers to get in close enough for a strike, and then retaliates. One falls quickly, from a simple slash to his neck, easily inflicted. Another lands two blows on Sirius, increasingly panicked as each one fails to leave damage. This one seems to give up, dropping his sword in terror as Sirius and the Gradivus loom over him.

There is blood on Sirius’ boots. It squelches beneath his foot as he steps forward to parry a swipe from the third loyalist. This one lacks finesse, but he has brute strength. Sirius grunts and throws another hand up to the shaft of Gradivus as the man presses his sword down against it. He grits his teeth and loosens up, suddenly, catching the man off-balance. Sirius rears back as he falls, then shoves forward, allowing Gradivus’ shaft to collide with the sword once more. The man shouts and flies backwards, stumbling over someone’s legs. He falls, and when he does, he lands directly on the upturned blade of his fallen comrade and screams. Sirius doesn’t have to do anything else.

The last man meets his end soon. He’s talented, but he makes a misstep. It happens to the best of soldiers, and unfortunately for this one, it causes his death. He mistimes a thrust and all but runs onto the end of Gradivus. He recoils backwards as the blades touch his stomach, but Sirius jabs the blade forward and skewers him. There is an unusual thrill racing through him, especially as he lifts him from the ground, as the man screams with agony. Blood drips from him in thick splatters, staining the golden rugs, and Sirius smiles.

“Die!”

The last commander, as it turns out, was not quite as dead as he thought. She comes out of nowhere, and Sirius grunts as she slams into him. Her weight knocks him off of his feet. The Gradivus slips from his hands, unfortunately off-balance from the weight of the man on the end, and Sirius goes sprawling. She tackles him to the ground, and he hits the floor with another heavy grunt. This would not bother him, if not for the fact that the Darksphere goes rolling out of his pocket, well out of his reach.

His heart stops.

“Not so tough, are you now, Grustian dog?” The woman sneers and pulls a dagger from her belt. She straddles him, her electric blue eyes wild with delight, and he hears his heart beating in his ears as she grips the hilt in both hands. “It’s a shame Lord Hardin didn’t slaughter your people personally.”

Sirius shuts his eyes and takes a sharp intake of breath, waiting for the pain, but it doesn’t come. All that does is a familiar tingle. The commander brings her blade down against his chest, but the dagger shatters against him. His eyes fly open and meet her own horrified gaze as she pulls back. Still straddling him, she looks down at her broken weapon, now nothing more than an ornate hilt and a jagged, metal end. She blinks, looks at him, and he looks back with equal shock.

**_‘We are bound,’_ ** the Darksphere murmurs to him, even as it rolls away. **_‘We need not be on Master Sirius’ person to protect him. Not anymore.’_ **

If that isn’t the best news he’s gotten in months.

The commander shouts in defiance as he lunges upwards, knocking her off of him. He sees a flash of panic on her face as he falls on top of her and reaches for her neck. He hears her begging for a moment, but he tunes it out with the help of the Darksphere humming loudly in his mind. Sirius smiles, puts his hand on her throat and one on her head, and watches her writhe in a mixture of anger and horror.

Sirius turns her head sharply to the side. The Darksphere’s humming drowns out the sickening _snap!_ that comes with the movement. The light fades from her eyes instantly. It’s not a bloody and painful death, which he feels she deserves. He would have liked to make her, someone so blatant in expression her belief in Hardin and the genocide of Grust, suffer in her last moments, but this will have to do.

He stands from her body and sighs, rolling his head around his shoulders. He beats his hand against his cloak and turns, picking up Gradivus before he goes searching for the Darksphere. Though it is nearly invisible against the shadows, he finds the Darksphere underneath a table. He reaches in and wraps his hand around it, immediately feeling at ease once more.

**_‘Who else is left?’_ ** it asks him as he tucks it away. **_‘Those must be all of Hardin’s loyalists commanders. Now… clergy? Magistrates?’_ **

Sirius frowns and turns, looking back at the dead bodies he has left in his wake. When the Darksphere mentions the clergy, he feels a little sick in the pit of his stomach. “Must we slaughter the clergy? I- I cannot imagine they have committed any grave sin. They are only here to minister. And the magistrates-”

There is a pulling at his mind, drawing his attention back to the Darksphere. **_‘The clergy gave Hardin their blessings. Have no pity for them. The magistrates enforced Hardin’s law, ordered the execution of people like that woman’s husband. You should feel no guilt in their deaths.’_ **

Sirius doesn’t feel so sure. He feels a little bit dizzy.

Regardless, he starts to travel the castle once more, debating on where he can find the magistrates. During his occupation, he never had much interaction with them, leaving him uncertain of where they could be hiding. He wanders the halls, only stopping when he hears a small squeak. Sirius looks down at the floor, and there, huddled against the wall beneath a table, a young girl stares up at him. She’s dressed in the uniform of a maid, but looks no more than fourteen. She’s shaking as he looks down at her, the whites of her eyes showing.

“Are you alright?” he asks. The Darksphere hisses in his mind, as though annoyed. But he ignores it and crouches down, suddenly aware of how much blood there is on his person. He hopes she doesn’t mind.

“Don’t kill me, please.” The girl’s voice confirms her age; there isn’t any way she’s any older than Yubello or Yuliya. Tears spring to her eyes and she covers her head with her hands, sobbing loudly. “Please!”

Sirius frowns and sets Gradivus down, then holds up his hands. “I will not. What are you doing here?”

The girl buries her face in her hands, still sobbing, and only acknowledges him again after ten or so seconds. Still shaking, the child tilts her head at him. He notices then that her legs are stuck out at an awkward angle, and he thinks he knows what has happened before she even says it.

“My legs don’t move that well,” she whispers, her tone still horrified, like she believes he’ll have a dagger in her chest if she speaks too loudly. “W-we heard that there was an intruder. They said- they said it was too much effort to help me.”

“‘They?’”

“I- I was serving the magistrates during a meeting,” she quietly explains. “They- they just ran-!” She breaks down again, face buried in a hand. Sirius cannot stop his lip from twitching as he watches her curl up and weep.

**_‘Does this convince you?’_ ** the Darksphere asks him snidely. **_‘Hardin’s enforcers—the pinnacle of morality and justice—unable to help one child, all because her legs don’t work like theirs.’_ **

_‘It is… low,’_ Gradivus admits, and it’s the first he’s heard the two agree.

Sirius finds a sofa in a sitting room nearby for the young girl to lie down on. The table in the room still sports a collection of plates and cups. It must have been not long ago that the occupants left, because the food and drink is still warm when he checks it. The girl looks at him from the couch; he can sense she’s more baffled than afraid.

“You won’t kill me?” she asks.

“You are a child. Not what I am here for.” Sirius looks at the table once more, than turns towards her. “I am here to set things right. I am your savior, little one.”

The girl looks up at him. Everything about her is pure white, from her hair to her skin. Her eyes are a dark pink, and there’s an obvious paint on her lips, but this is the only color on her. The fear seems to have melted from her, and she admits, “I know where they are.”

“The magistrates?”

The girl presses her pink lips and looks towards the door, swallowing. “When- when Lord Hardin started acting like _that,_ he killed or exiled all the old magistrates. He put his own in power.” Her eyes fill with tears, but they seem more angry than anything. “He found the worst of the worst, those who would sentence someone to death for speaking out against their policies. If I can- if I can help get rid of them, then… I will.”

Sirius reaches forward and, despite the Darksphere warning him that this is a soft-hearted, paternal sentiment he doesn’t need, he rests a hand on the girl’s head. She flinches, then looks up at him, blinking her large eyes. He isn’t sure how reassuring he looks, blood-stained and dirty from travel, but he smiles. “You are brave to want to help. Where did they go?”

The young girl bites her lip and points towards the door. “There’s a safe room three halls down, at the end of the passage. It’s a panel in the floor, beneath the carpet.” She shuts her eyes and turns her head, but the action seems more exhausted than ashamed. These magistrates must be awful for a young girl to feel little remorse in sentencing them to death. “They’ll all be down there, my lord.”

Sirius enjoys the sound of “my lord” more than he should.

He walks three halls down, just as the girl said, and takes a turn to walk down the end of the passage. The hallway is quiet, empty. The floorboards creak underneath his foot, and he holds Gradivus at the ready. He controls his breathing and listens as he takes each slow step, and, at last, his footsteps sound more hollow. Sirius pauses, pushing his weight down, and hears a more pronounced creak than before. He thumps the end of Gradivus against the ground, and it confirms to him that the ground is hollow. He reaches down, picks up the corner of the rug, and flips it away. Tucked into the corner is a well-hidden panel, but he finds the latch to it easily.

Sirius lifts the panel up, and he finds what he was promised: a shivering, screaming group of old men, all scrambling over one another and begging for their lives. He presses his lips in disgust, counts how many there are, and descends into the cellar. He finds that despite how many there are, it’s all too easy to dispose of cornered vermin.

Sirius feels no shame until he has reached the chapel, at which point he starts to feel dizzy. He’s covered in blood, and the scent of it reeks. He thought he was used to the smell of blood after all these years, but for some reason, this blood is particularly pungent and clings to the inside of his nose. There is some nausea that turns his stomach, and he stumbles. Sirius gasps as he braces a hand against one of the tall, intricate doors to the chapel, where he hears people panicking inside.

He doesn’t feel right.

“I-” Sirius blinks and shakes his head, then loosens his grip on Gradivus. “The clergy- I cannot kill them. They are people of the cloth. I cannot imagine they were loyal to Hardin so much as they were afraid of him. I- I truly cannot kill them.”

**_‘Master Sirius. Do not be so weak. This is the only way to purify the continent.’_ **

“I-!” Again, he blinks, but harder this time. Sirius reels back from the door and wobbles on his feet, feeling that same jolt up his spine he felt in Marth’s tent, and suddenly, there is horror rising in him. He drops Gradivus and steps back, looking down to his blood-encrusted hands. His breathing picks up, and he realizes: he doesn’t really remember how he got here. He doesn’t remember leaving the League all that well. He doesn’t quite recall walking from Pales to the Millenium Court, because it felt like an entirely different person doing it, merely sporting his skin.

What is he doing? Whose blood is this?

What would Tatiana think of him, if she could see?

Sirius begins to shake. Trembling violently, he reaches for the closest thing he has to a holy symbol. He searches for the wedding ring on the chain around his neck, concealed beneath his shirt, and he screams at what he has done.

And then he blinks, squeezes his eyes shut, and grimaces as he puts a few fingers to his temple. Gradivus is in his hand again, and he feels woozy, like he may be sick. His body is uncomfortably hot, and the scent of blood is thicker in his senses than ever. He opens his eyes and looks around with unfocused vision at the glamour, gold, and holy imagery around him.

He is in the chapel, and when he looks down, there is a collection of corpses at his feet.

_‘Ezekiel.’_ It is the Gradivus whispering to him this time. He has never heard it sound horrified before. _‘You had your mind back… for a second. Try again… Ezekiel!’_

“It had to be done,” he says, though the words feel hollow and his chest burns as he gazes down into the dead eyes of an old priest. “I have purified this place.”

_‘No,’_ Gradivus whispers. _‘What would she say… What would she… say…’_

Sirius grits his teeth, and then smiles. He smiles as he surveys his work: the blood on the walls, the entrails on the pews, the limbs scattered about. He smiles as the Darksphere in his pocket hums with approval, and he cannot remember what he felt so sick or worried about only a few minutes ago. He doesn’t worry about the fact that he can’t recall slaughtering the clergy. He doesn’t think about why his throat is raw, nor why his eyes have a lingering burn. He just smiles, and then he laughs.

He can’t remember the last time he laughed. It feels good. He must be happy.

* * *

* * *

Within an hour, Sirius finds a large group of people in the eastern dungeons. There sit many men and women on the floors, visibly starving and weak, some barely conscious as he looks upon them. He is glad he did away with the magistrates; the heartier prisoners explain that rather than releasing them upon Hardin’s death, the magistrates had planned to leave them to rot in the dungeons until Marth and Nyna returned.

Sirius takes the keys from willing guards and releases the people. They stream out of the dungeons, squinting up at the sunlight and shielding their eyes. He finds one particular man among them with black hair, sharp eyes, and a scar stretching from his cheek to his nose. Sirius sends this particular man back home with a message for his wife and his neighbors:

“You are free. I have made this so.”

His work done, Sirius returns to the castle. He finds no more terror or resistance. In fact, he finds people eager to please him. When he asks a servant to take him to Hardin’s study, they do. He pens a letter to the noblewoman he knows is managing the Grustian government at the moment, asks a carrier to deliver it as swiftly as possible, and he does. Sirius asks a butler to show him to a washroom, and the man does so gladly. There, he cleans himself of the stink and dirt of travel, along with the blood. A maid brings him a change of clothes without him even asking, seemingly happy to do so. Sirius stands in front of a mirror, holding Conrad’s—no, _his_ —mask in his hands, and decides to put it back on.

Sirius asks for any of those still loyal to Hardin and Nyna to step forward.

None do.

No one resists him. Days come and go, and Sirius passes them by peacefully in the castle. No one refuses him entrance anywhere. No one speaks up against him. The nobility organize around him without him even realizing it, fawning over his strength and regality. They thank him for deposing the last of Hardin’s government, and it’s when they start to bow to him that Sirius makes a realization:

He could rule. He could be the emperor. He could be that ruler that Michalis spoke of, the one with an iron fist and strength, and he could be the one to unite the continent and get it back on its feet. His plan had just been to cleanse Archanea of the last of Hardin’s influence for Prince Marth, but this feels right. He stands on a balcony just outside the throne room, where he can survey the courtyards and Pales, and it feels right.

_‘No,’_ Gradivus says. _‘What about… Valentia?’_

Valentia will make do without him. Archanea needs him more.

There is no resistance when Sirius declares himself emperor. Word of it spreads fast: through the castle, then the city, then the countrysides, and then further beyond. He stakes a claim on Aurelis to the north, which was a part of Archanea in all but name underneath Hardin and Nyna’s rule. He stakes his claim on Gra to the west, knowing full-well that its sovereign, Princess Sheena, is away, and had no desire to rule in the first place. He sends soldiers out to what is left of the country of Pyrathi, after Marth destabilized it years ago. Talys is too far for him to worry about now, Khaedin is protected by Gotoh, and he has no wish to get on Marth’s bad side by claiming Altea. He is unsure of what to do about Macedon.

**_‘You are a natural at this,’_ ** the Darksphere whispers to him in the night. **_‘Everything is yours.’_ **

The castle staff escort him to the grandest chambers in the palace after they finish cleaning it. It’s been years since anyone occupied them, and its disuse is still apparent. Hardin and Nyna slept in different chambers out of respect for her deceased parents, but Sirius couldn’t care less. He deserves the height of luxury, given what he’s taken upon himself. So, he paces the room and observes the furniture, details the renovations he wants done, and is pleased.

There are tall, glass walls on the far side of the room that open with a slight push. Sirius steps out onto the balcony they lead out to, into the night air. He looks over the nearly-asleep city of Pales, hands behind his back. This bedroom is high up in the castle, and he can see the ocean and the moon in the distance. The view makes the room nearly flawless. Sirius walks back into the room towards his bags, pulls the portrait of Tatiana from them, and props it up on the nightstand, determining that this makes the chambers all the better.

Sirius rejects a coronation, deeming the time and resource-wasting it would take up unnecessary. He finds the people of Pales and beyond gathering on the castle grounds anyway on one particular day, cheering for him when he comes out onto the throne room’s balcony to gaze at them. It’s no surprise; he is the one who came to them in their darkest hour and eradicated the last traces of Hardin. He is a savior, they say of him. It’s amazing, they say, that Camus the Sable has saved them, when he so nearly ruined them years ago. To this, he reminds all he can that he is not Camus. He is Sirius, and he will be referred to as such.

Things progress easily. The servants in the castle continue their work, and the nobility continues their process of rebuilding the government. The people of Pales continue on with their lives, and he gladly notes that they seem less afraid to move about their own city than before. He hires some new staff, including Roe, whom he has discovered is the seamstress for a prominent noble house. He needs new clothes, those more befitting of a ruler than a soldier. The world keeps moving on, as though nothing great has changed, as though new blood on the throne is all anyone ever wanted for.

Nine days after he proclaims himself emperor, he receives a letter back from Grust. The noblewoman in charge lets him know the country is fine, but that it is still struggling. They are still weak and unsure of themselves after the damage Lang and Hardin did. Food is in short supply, and they’re recovering from a bout of sickness that swept over the country in the cold months.

Sirius orders aid to be taken to Grust. Food, medicine, whatever they can scrounge up. He has it packed onto a cargo ship and sent out, and the court praises this, deeming it a grand kindness. Few things Sirius has done in his mere days as emperor have been met with defiance, though. The only thing that comes close to causing a stir is that while Aurelis and Gra will be removed of their names and pulled into the new empire, it is not the smaller Grust that will be absorbed into Archanea. Rather, it is Archanea that will be pulled into Grust.

Days pass. Things feel almost ordinary. For now, Sirius does nothing much, save for redecorate his new chambers, meet Roe for clothes fitting, greet the people of Pales from a balcony, and acquaint himself with the court. Things are lax at the moment, though the reminder of the chaos from two weeks ago lingers in the blood that the maids just haven’t been able to get out of the floors.

Sirius is only waiting, at this point.

Sirius has a grand desk put in his chambers, and he works there. The Darksphere sits on a pedestal in the corner, where it occasionally hums and makes the odd comment now and then. Sirius spends his evenings at this desk, reading letters from Grustian nobility who have plans to relocate to Pales, from lords and ladies in the far reaches of the empire’s territory who are requesting aid, and the occasional letter he has received from Tatiana.

He is poring over one such letter, admiring the curve of her handwriting, when there’s a knock on his door. When he calls, “Enter,” the door cracks open. In comes the young maid—Maya, he recalls—who had given away the magistrates location. Haltingly, she walks towards his desk after giving a bow. In her hands is a silver platter, and atop that is a letter. Sirius stands from his desk and meets her halfway; she looks relieved.

“What is this?” he asks.

Maya tucks the tray under her arm once he has the letter in his hands. “Letter, my lord. Carrier told me it was from Prince Marth of Altea.”

This is what he’s been waiting for.

Sirius excuses Maya and returns to his desk. He pulls a letter-opener from the interior of a drawer, presses the blade into the envelope’s seam, and slits it open. Contained within is a single page, devoid of any flowery prose or niceties. Yet, it also lacks a certain hostile note he had been expecting. Perhaps not staking a claim on Altea just yet was to Sirius’ advantage. The letter only details that Prince Marth and company will be in Pales as soon as the next day.

Sirius smiles and places the letter in the center of his desk, content that events are in faster motion.

* * *

* * *

**_‘Do you fear Marth of Altea?’_ ** the Darksphere asks. **_‘Do you think he has come to kill you?’_**

Sirius has not often been in the throne room. He has yet to sit on the throne. To do so before he speaks with Prince Marth would feel cheap. But he waits in the throne room for Marth and company, because this seems like the best place to state his intentions. He stands in the middle of the room, staring up at the throne atop its dais, and puts his hand over the Darksphere in his pocket.

“I do not.” Sirius’ voice echoes in the large, empty room. It’s glamorous, built from all types of shining, white and gold materials. Blue-and-gold banners boasting the Archanean symbol hang from the ceiling, though they’ll be removed shortly. An elaborate gold rug covers the floor leading up to the throne, and he traces the curled patterns woven into it with his eyes. A lesser man might be sweating, but Sirius fears nothing.

**_‘They have the Starsphere. They may try to kill you.’_ **

This does make Sirius frown, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “Even without the invincibility you grant me, I am more than capable of taking on one prince and his ragtag bunch.” He pauses and turns to the door, from where he can hear footsteps approaching. “I am not weak like Hardin was.”

It is one of the Archanean nobility who opens the door, rather than a guard. The noble is a man of forty by the name of Eldoa, who is tall, pale, and sports his silver hair in a single braid down his back. Sirius has become acquainted with him well in the past two weeks, and it’s clear that he has been trying to solidify himself as a trustworthy advisor. It’s shocking to Sirius, how easily the nobility have adjusted to this new political order, but then he tells himself that it’s not so surprising. Many nobles are raised to be adaptable, able to bend to any new situation they need to in order to obtain grander standing.

Eldoa smiles and nods, then opens the door further. He has barely worked out, “I would like to present Prince Marth of Altea, and-” before Marth himself comes striding into the throne room. Sirius stands firm in place and turns to meet him, amused at the dark expression Marth wears, the bags below his eyes, and the disheveled state of his clothing. It’s obvious to him that Marth was victorious in his crusade against Medeus—elsewise he wouldn’t be here—but that it hasn’t been all that long since the battle.

“Prince Marth,” Sirius greets, and then his eyes flicker behind him. In comes Michalis, of all people, but those who come in after him render him irrelevant. Sirius smiles, truly, as Yubello and Yuliya hesitantly make their way into the room, looking back and forth cautiously. He walks past Marth, who makes no comment, and opens his arms to them.

“Oh, a hug for me?” Michalis asks, obviously joking. Sirius ignores him and extends a hand as Yubello and Yuliya rush for him, their own arms outstretched. The tap of their well-worn shoes echoes in the throne room, and they both shout with delight as they collide with him. They bury themselves against him, laughing with hoarse voices, and Sirius wraps his arms around them.

“We missed you!” Yubello says, pulling away from Sirius first. His smile fades into a confused frown. “Why are you- why are you the emperor now?”

Sirius shakes his own head and reaches to rest a hand on Yubello’s cheek. “There is no need for you to worry about that. Did you two come all this way from the Dragon’s Table just to see me?”

“We want to stay,” Yuliya insists as she breaks out of his hug. She smiles, far less concerned than Yubello, and politely inclines her head towards Marth. “Prince Marth said he was coming to see you, and he said we could come with. We can stay, right? And Roberto, Reiden, and Belf? They’re waiting outside for us.”

Sirius stands straight up, though keeps his hands on Yubello’s shoulders. “I would welcome it. I can have rooms set up for you.” He glances over his shoulder at Marth. “If that is alright with Prince Marth, that is?”

Marth truly does look exhausted, but he still manages to smile at the children. He lifts a hand from the inside of his cloak and waves. His voice is hoarse when he says, “They are capable of making their own choices. If they would like to stay, they may. I have no power over them.”

Yuliya’s eyes brighten up. She takes Yubello by the hand and starts to drag him towards the door. “C’mon, let’s go tell Maria we’re staying!”

Sirius furrows his brow. “So. I see you did something about the maidens.” He watches as Yubello and Yuliya dart from the room, where they are met by a maid. He waits until they’re out of sight, then nods to Eldoa, who nods back and exits the room as well. The tall doors close behind him with a dull thud, leaving Sirius alone with Marth and Michalis.

“That we did,” Michalis replies. He folds his arms and smiles, coy as ever as he puts a curved finger to his chin. “All four. Queen Nyna included. It seems she has a closer bond with that Linde woman than we thought. A few words from her was enough to rouse Lady Nyna from whatever hold Medeus had her under.”

Sirius glances away, wishing he had chosen to wear his mask to this meeting. He knows Prince Marth to be an excellent reader of expressions, and the thought of Marth being able to read him when he doesn’t even know what it is he’s feeling is unsettling. “Where is she now?”

“En route to Altea with Caeda and Linde,” Marth replies. His voice is still hoarse, and he clears his throat into a fist abruptly. “Pardon, we’ve been traveling nonstop for days now; my voice seems to be fading.”

“Would you like some wine?” Sirius offers. “Water, ale?”

Marth shakes his head. “That is kind, but no thank you.” He wrings his hands in front of him, looks at Michalis, and then at Sirius. He takes a deep breath, and: “This is my fault.”

Sirius quirks a brow in time with Michalis.

“Had I realized the Darksphere would do this to you, I wouldn’t have insisted on you keeping it,” Marth elaborates. He casts his eyes to the ground and lowers his head. “You expressed concern with keeping it on your person many times, but I ignored you in favor of what I thought was your best interest. I assumed the presence of the Starsphere would be enough to counteract it, but-”

Annoyance flares through Sirius. “This isn’t the doing of that thing!”

His words echo in the hollow room. Michalis looks amused; Marth appears weary and concerned.

“General Camus,” he says, only to visibly bite his tongue when Sirius scowls. “Sirius. I- it’s good to see you aren’t trying to hide your identity anymore. I know we were enemies in the past, but I have known Sirius for longer than I ever knew Camus. I know you to be a kind man. You care for your people, your friends. So I- I do not believe this is your doing.”

Sirius turns his head away, annoyed that his gaze grazes Michalis’ own. “I do not think you truly knew me. I do not think you know how much of that Sirius was real, and how much of him was a farce.”

“I knew him well enough to know he’d never conquer a country for his own!” Marth snaps, his expression suddenly irate rather than tired. “We heard the stories on the way here. That you just walked into the Millenium Court and slaughtered dozens of people. Generals, magistrates, the _clergy-”_

“They were loyal to Hardin,” Sirius protests. “I was simply doing some cleaning up around here.”

“That is not how you do it!”

“And how would you know, Marth?” Michalis asks evenly. He cocks his head when Marth falters, then turns his head towards Sirius the tiniest bit and smiles.

Sirius rolls his eyes.

“Listen to me: it is the Darksphere doing this,” Marth continues to insist, his voice increasingly desperate. “There was not any hope for Hardin, but there is some for you. Please, hand the Darksphere over to me. I’ll put it in the Binding Shield, and it will not be able to corrupt anyone again.”

“It isn’t the Darksphere,” Sirius reiterates, wondering how many times he will have to say this. “But I refuse to give it to you. It wants to be with me. It keeps me safe.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Marth says. “Sirius, I beg of you, please. Give me the Darksphere, and you’ll snap out of this. Nyna has already handed the rights to the throne to me; she’s had enough of ruling and royalty, she says. We’ll tuck the Darksphere away, we’ll work out the aftermath of the war, and you may go home to Valentia.”

Sirius reaches up and rests a hand on the collar of his coat, feeling the slight bump that tells him his wedding ring is there. He thinks of Valentia briefly, of its rolling green hills and vast oceans, but casts the thoughts aside quickly. He has love for Valentia, but he has no plans to go back to it. Grust needs him more.

“I will not,” he says, then smirks. “So, Nyna has handed over the right to rule Archanea to you?” He reaches up and tucks his jaw into a hand, observing Marth snidely. “With Archanea comes Aurelis. With your marriage to Princess Caeda comes Talys. I suppose Princess Sheena of Gra has handed her country to you as well, and so has Gotoh with Khaedin. And, you expect to take Grust into your care, is that right?”

“What do you-”

“Dolhr is no longer a country of its own, not with the decimation of its people during the war. Naturally, that territory would fall to you.” Sirius’ eyes flicker to Michalis, then back to Marth. “Queen Minerva has no desire to rule Macedon, and I do not suppose Michalis will be swooping in to take the throne back. Macedon falls to you.”

Marth stays quiet, as though Sirius’ point has dawned on him before he’s even finished making it.

Sirius extends his arms at his sides and frowns at Marth. “So, ‘tis alright for you to rule over the continent and bring it together, but not for me to do the same?”

Marth looks down to the floor, his shoulders slumped. He sighs and reaches his hands to his face, rubbing his fingers against his eyes. The poor boy looks exhausted. He’s only a couple of years older than Alm. “It is not out of any personal ambition or greed,” Marth says. “It’s a necessary burden. I’ve had the rights to these countries bestowed upon me by their sovereigns, rather than hostilely taking over them!”

“What was so hostile about claiming a land without the protection of a ruler, whose princess had no desire to be sovereign in any case?” Sirius questions. “What was so hostile about quietly absorbing the remains of a crippled pirate nation? What was so hostile about freeing the people of Pales from the remnants of Hardin’s rule? What was so hostile about taking my homeland of Grust into my protection?”

Marth shuts his eyes and takes in a deep, deep breath. He looks up at Sirius with a hardened expression, with a look in his eyes that is far beyond his years. Quietly, he pulls his arm from the inside of his cloak and holds it out, staring Sirius straight in the eye. “I shan’t ask you politely another time, Sir Sirius. The Darksphere, now. Or else I will dispose of you, just as I have every other tyrant.”

Sirius takes a step towards Marth, looming over the boy. Yet, Marth doesn’t back down. Admiring his guts, Sirius leans down, coming just a little closer to his face. “I am no tyrant, Prince Marth. I am this continent’s savior, and I will not be handing any of my tools over to you.” He stands straight and looks over to Michalis. “I presume you had your own reasons for coming here?”

“For a show,” Michalis replies cooly. “But, were you to make me an offer… Perhaps I would not say no.”

Marth jumps and turns on his heel to face him. “Michalis!”

Michalis shrugs.

“A deal?” Sirius echoes.

“Macedon is already in a civil war,” Michalis explains. “Since knowledge that I am alive became known. A portion of the country wishes to remain under Minerva’s incompetent rule, and the rest want me to reclaim the throne. Should you make me a sufficient deal, I promise you my portion of Macedon. Crushing Minerva’s faction would be simple for a man like yourself.”

“Michalis,” Marth protests again. “You said you wanted to come because-!”

“Hush now, princeling,” Michalis says. “We don’t know just yet if he has a deal good enough for me.”

Sirius jams his tongue into his cheek and thinks on this as Michalis and Marth continue to bicker. He taps a finger against his jaw and hums, contemplating what he could offer Michalis that would interest him. He’s well-aware that Michalis is interested in him for more… carnal reasons, but that ship has sailed. He knows Michalis cares for power. He knows Michalis detests Minerva. And he knows that Michalis loves Maria.

He thinks he has just the thing.

“If you give me your portion of Macedon,” Sirius starts, catching Michalis’ and Marth’s attentions, “I shall offer you a position as one of my most trusted advisors.”

Michalis smiles. “And?”

Sirius shuts his eyes, then opens them. “I promise a safe, peaceful place for Lady Maria to live and recover from what Medeus put her through, unbothered by the calamity of a civil war.”

It’s this that causes Michalis to stick out his hand towards Sirius, much to Marth’s visible horror. Sirius takes Michalis’ hand in his own and gives it a firm shake, pleased when Michalis says, “And you have yourself a deal, my friend.” He smiles a bit wider. “I always knew it was you.”

“Do not come into this expecting my attentions,” Sirius warns. “This will not be like the last time we worked together.”

“Was that wife not just a part of your disguise? I am shocked that someone would settle for you.”

Sirius has a biting response, but it is cut off by the sound of metal being drawn from a sheath. He looks away from Michalis and looks over to find Marth, Falchion drawn, shaking with a wild look in his eyes. The boy looks near breaking, and for a moment, something deep inside of Sirius pities him.

“I just want this to be over.” Marth releases a shaking sigh and ducks his head. “By the gods, I just want this all to be over-!”

Sirius frowns; the answer to Marth’s problem is simple. “Hand over Altea, Talys, and Khaedin to me, and all will be well. It can be over, Marth. I promise to treat the people well, and to still allow you your due power. You act as though I plan on turning into Hardin.”

“I will not trust in someone corrupted by magic!” Marth shouts, and his words hang heavy in the air. Something inside Sirius feels uneasy, and he has a hard time brushing it off. “If you do not surrender to me here and now, Sir Sirius, I will not lose! I will fight, and I will not stop until I have rid this land of the Darksphere’s accursed influence!”

Michalis takes a long step back as Sirius reaches for his own sword. Marth looks pale as he draws it, but holds out the Falchion in proper dueling form as Sirius extends his own blade. Michalis looks giddy, and Sirius wonders if he’s regretting not bringing a weapon of his own.

“And you think you can defeat me, one on one?” Sirius asks. “I assure you, what happened all those years ago will not happen again. I have only been getting stronger all the time, and I have no more plans to lose to children.”

Marth remains silent, eyes cast down towards the hilt of Falchion. The throne room as a whole is eerily silent. Sirius waits, though the Darksphere is urging him to take Marth’s head here, now, while it’s still easy. But, Sirius wants his fun, and Marth is the last person who can provide it.

“I will win,” Marth whispers. His voice is no louder than a murmur, a mere breath, and he sounds so tired. “I will win, because everyone needs me to. But I- I will not win now.” He exits his dueling form and stands straight, sheathing his sword. He takes a step back and looks away, expression dark. “I have brought the children here. I’ve accomplished one thing today; those children deserve happiness, even if it is with you.” Marth lowers his head, but doesn’t bow. “I presume this is all we have to discuss?”

**_‘Kill him,’_ ** the Darksphere urges, frantic. **_‘Now, now, now!’_ **

Sirius sheathes his own blade and tucks his hand back into his coat. He nodes politely, then gestures to the door. “I will not kill you today, Prince Marth. You are the last opponent alive who could entertain me. I would prefer this all to be fun, you see.” He steps back as Marth moves past him. “I have one last thing for you.”

Marth pauses just as he rests a hand on the door, then turns his head back towards Sirius. He looks so exhausted that it should be impossible for him to stand. “Yes?”

“I would like you to deliver a message to Nyna.”

Marth keeps staring at him, eyes glimmering with some interest.

Sirius places a hand on his chest and lowers himself into a slight bow. “Communicate to her that if I am ever made to see her again, I will have her head.”

An odd energy comes from Marth, somewhere between rage and panic. He pushes open the door and murmurs, “Good day.” Then, he leaves.

After a moment has passed, Michalis asks, “Weren’t you supposed to be in love with the princess?”

“I have no love in my heart for a woman like that,” Sirius replies. He waves a hand and turns, making for the dais. “She was powerless against Hardin. The state of Archanea rests on her shoulders as much as it did his. I should slay her, just as I did the rest of them.”

Sirius comes to a stop in front of the dais, and he stares up at the throne. Behind him, Michalis is silent, but he hears the click of heels against the floor. Someone else has entered, but he doesn’t allow that to deter him from climbing the steps of the dais, slowly, one at a time.

“You intend to finally sit on the throne?” The voice belongs to Eldoa. “At long last.”

Sirius reaches the top of the dais and stands before the throne, taking in the pure white and gold. It’s decorated with the finest pillows and fabrics, soft against his fingers when he reaches out to touch them. “It has only been three weeks, Eldoa.”

“Three weeks and you haven’t sat on your own throne?” Michalis scoffs. Sirius isn’t facing him, but he can see Michalis in his mind’s eye, tossing his head and hair. “Dramatic bastard. You were just waiting to tell Marth off before claiming it as your own?”

“It seemed only right to offer Prince Marth that respect,” Sirius says. He sighs, turns, and takes a seat.

It feels like nothing special, in truth. It’s just a comfortable chair, in terms of function. It’s the highest vantage point in the room, though, and it does make him feel more powerful than before when he gazes out at Michalis and Eldoa from so high up. He feels powerful, knowing he is sitting where the most powerful men in the world have sat for ages, and it feels right to him. It feels right, leaning back in the throne, gazing at the room around him. It feels right, to have Michalis and Eldoa bow to him.

Sirius leans back and stretches his arms over the armrests, then crosses his leg over the opposite knee. He shuts his eyes and relishes the feeling, but promptly opens them again when he hears, “Sire?” He looks down and finds Eldoa, standing politely at the foot of the dais below, his head lowered and manners mild. Sirius feels slightly annoyed to have his moment interrupted, but nods to him.

Eldoa stands straight. “If I may be so bold, sire, but do you plan to rule alone?”

Sirius quirks a brow. In the slight distance, he thinks Michalis may look annoyed. “How do you mean?”

“It’s considered improper for the person who sits on that throne to rule alone,” Eldoa advises. “It’s bad luck, as I’m sure you know. Tradition has always stated that the ruler must have a partner.” He is quiet for a moment, looking like he is chewing on a thought. “Once more, if I may be bold, I do have a daughter of marriageable age. You’ll need an heir, and I’m sure she is more than willing to provide.”

An heir. Sirius hadn’t thought about that. He determines he doesn’t need to right now. So, he waves a hand and readjusts his leg over his knee, then props his head up against a fist. “You make a kind offer, Lord Eldoa, but I need not your daughter. I am already spoken for.”

Surprised, Eldoa looks up. “Oh?”

“Yes. Do me a favor and bring me some parchment and a quill.” Sirius leans back further and looks down at Eldoa and Michalis. “And I want the finest travelling vessel available readied to make the journey to Valentia and back.

“I do believe it is time that my love and I are reunited.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. :) world's burning, huh
> 
> before i get into regular author's note, just wanna remind everyone to take precautions to prevent the spread of the virus: wash your hands! stay home if you're sick! high-risk ppl will thank you
> 
> anyway, sorry for the long hiatus. the chapter's been done for a while, but Sam (story's inventor + beautiful artist) has been rly busy and hasn't had time to make any new chapter art. we came to the conclusion that because she's so busy with her graduation and capstone stuff at school, along with her job, it would be for the best if we just publish the chapters without the art, and then add the art as it's finished. this'll make it so that there are shorter intervals between chapters, and also so she doesn't feel pressured to get art done. i'll let you guys know in future chapters when art has been added to previous chapters so that you can go back and see it — alternatively, you can follow Sam @DT75Art on twitter
> 
> enjoy the chapter!! it's tatiana time :)

In Valentia, it is the peak of summer. For the lands of what were once Rigel, this means that it’s harvesting season. Summer is when they grow strawberries, apples, blood oranges, and other fruits. It’s also when they grow wheat and many of their vegetables. Summer is the season in which the fishermen are the most successful, and every day they come in with a haul. It’s the best season for drying and preserving their food, and nearly every person’s house sports a variety of meat, whether hanging from a line or elsewise.

This is Tatiana’s first harvest season on her own. From her childhood, she always had the church to rely on; back then, she found herself more a helper than anything when it came to preparing food for the colder seasons. After that, she had Zeke with her, who proved himself extremely capable at helping with the fields and the fish, even if the preservation and preparation of the food eluded him. And, last summer, she spent most of her time at the castle with Alm and everyone else as they recovered from the war.

This year, it’s only her. Rather than spending her time at the palace, she’s gone back home. She and Zeke have a home in the palace—a few rooms that make up a comfortable living space—but she doesn’t like being there on her own. The nobility leer at her, and her job helping in the chapels and the hospital wing isn’t enough to tempt her to stay.

She gets visitors, from time to time. Sometimes it’s Forsyth and Python stopping by, able to make some time for her while they’re on missions near the old borders. Sometimes it’s Clair, who can make the trip up to the village in only two days time by flight. Occasionally it is Silque when she makes a stop in the western region, and sometimes it is even Alm himself, who attempts to slip into the village as discreetly as possible, but inevitably draws attention.

But Tatiana lives on her own, and she provides for herself on her own, and it’s harder than she wants it to be. She has the lone house by the seashore, just a small distance from the beach. It’s a nice house—she has a view of the water, and she’s not too far from the village’s general store or the blacksmith’s if she needs groceries or help. She has a nice porch that she can grow herbs on and keep them shaded, and she has a stretch of land all around her to keep a proper garden in. She also keeps Zeke’s horse, Ephraim, in this stretch of land, and she’s been learning to ride as of late. Ephraim is a warhorse, and fussy at that, but he’s always seemed to like her. He allows her to mount him with no issue, and he’s never given her a problem with controlling the reins.

Tatiana grows the summer staples in her garden: Tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, beets, eggplant, some wheat. She’s fortunate that things grow underneath her care. She’s certain it’s due to the soil around her house, or even Mila’s Blessing that seems to be seeping into all of Valentia’s earth nowadays , but she likes to think she has a bit of a green thumb. She gets her fruit from the farmers with the larger orchards, and she trades tomatoes and beans for it. For her milk and eggs, she trades beets and eggplants with a childhood friend who owns no shortage of cows and chickens. What she makes as a cleric at the priory isn’t much at all, but she doesn’t struggle financially. She prefers to use her own money, but she knows that if she’s coming up short and needs a few extra coppers to buy fabric or meat, she has all of the money that Zeke left her.

It’s a lot. When Tatiana opens the coffer that they keep in their wardrobe, it’s overflowing with gold and silver marks. She sometimes sits on their bed with the chest in her lap, running her fingers over the coins, and the fact that Zeke left his fortune with her at home is one of the only things that convinces her he has plans to come back. It’s not as though he’s a selfish, materialistic man, but she knows of few people who would leave a small fortune behind in a closet.

She holds some of the gold marks in her palm sometimes, reeling at just how much money it is, and knows she could easily move to the city with this. But, it doesn’t suit her. She likes the house Zeke bought for her, and she likes her simple living.

Tatiana keeps herself busy, because as long as she’s busy, she has less time to think about Zeke and what he’s doing. She has less time to think about how she hasn’t gotten a letter from him in a long, long while, and what the implications of that are. She has less time, when she’s constantly moving, to imagine him somewhere in the cold, bleeding out in the Archanean trenches. She has less time to think about her own experience with war, where she did oftentimes watch him writhe in pain, bleeding profusely, but she was always there to fix him and make him better, and she’s not there with him now, and what if he needs her and she’s not  _ there— _

Tatiana slams one of the drawers. She jolts at the sound, blinks, and takes a deep breath as she recenters herself. She’s in her kitchen, standing in front of the sink, and she has a knife in her palm and a hunk of meat in front of her. The window is slightly ajar, letting in the sound of the waves and her neighbors. When she looks out, the sky is turning pink, and the sun is starting to creep closer to the line where the sea meets the sky. Some bird squawks as it flies overhead.

She takes a deep breath and looks down to the meat on the cutting board in front of her. Frowning, she realizes she’s purchased too much for only one person. A waste of money. It’s only her in the house, and she’s not planning on guests anytime soon. She’s just gotten so used to cooking for two, and even though it’s been over a year now, she’s still shaking the habit. Tatiana makes a slice along the meat, unable to keep herself from frowning deeper, and sets it to the side so she can dry it or put it in the icebox later.

Life is peaceful. Perhaps it is more peaceful than it has ever been. Even without the war, Tatiana grew up in the shadow of Fear Mountain, living in constant fear of Nuibaba. There was always the knowledge among the young women that you could be talking one day, and the next, your friends might not be there.  _ You _ might not be there. They lived in fear of a fate worse than death, and they lived in fear of Jerome, too. Jerome, who always took what was not his, who twisted and warped the justice system for his own gain.

Now, Nuibaba and Jerome are forever gone, and the war is done. The soil is better than it ever has been. Things grow. Their food reserves are full. They no longer fear the Zofians down south, because despite the growing pains of forming a new nation, they all belong to the One Kingdom. Under Alm and Celica’s rule, there’s been a sharp decline in human trafficking and other crime. Few people that Tatiana knows have financial struggles, and those who looked weary and dead on their feet before the war now look happy and healthy. Where it was once unviable due to food supply and finances, many of Tatiana’s friends are having babies.

Everyone is happy. Tatiana stands in the center of the village right next to the well, watching her neighbors and friends, and she is glad to see everyone else happy.

She just wonders when she’s going to be happy.

“Times like these really make you wish we had more of a connection with Archanea, huh?”

Tatiana sits in a chair, watching the friend who says this work over a stove. In Tatiana’s arms is a very small child, no more than three months, who is sleeping easy as his mother works. She notices that she’s getting called on more and more to watch her friends’ children while they do some form of work, and it’s no wonder why: almost everyone except for her either has a small child, or else has one very close on the way.

Tatiana presses her lips and tries to not roll her eyes. Some form of this is always how people start small talk nowadays. She knows she shouldn’t let it get to her, but it’s annoying to hear the same sentiment over and over again. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Her friend lifts the lid on a pot and peers in, then puts it back down and returns to fiddling with her dumplings in a pan. “What’s it been? About seventeen months now, right?”

Tatiana winces. The baby in her arms mumbles and squirms, flexing his tiny hands, and she shushes him. When he’s quieted down, she replies, “Fifteen. The last I got a letter from Zeke was about four months ago.”

The bubbling sound of different things cooking on the stove overtakes the kitchen. This friend of hers doesn’t press and say, “Oh, I’m sure it’s fine, he’s just busy!” because they all know that could full-well be a lie. There really is no way to know for certain if it’s just the inability to get a letter to Valentia, or if it’s that— that her husband is  _ dead _ somewhere, and she’ll just never know.

Tatiana looks down at the baby in her arms and runs her finger over the delicate curve of his nose, wondering how it was that one day she was discussing a family of their own with Zeke, only for him to be gone only a day later. She can’t imagine what was so pressing that he had to leave for Archanea in such a rush, but she imagines it has something to do with his past. The thought makes her feel cold in the pit of her stomach.

Using the meat she didn’t use the other day, Tatiana cooks dinner for herself. She hasn’t had much of an appetite or sense of taste lately; her cookbooks sit unused on a shelf as she prepares some meat and rice. There’s peach wine in the cabinet, but it remains untouched as well. It was a gift from a friend a few months ago, meant to commemorate her twenty-third birthday, but she doesn’t drink that much. If she does, it’s typically social and in the company of her husband.

It’s not like Tatiana doesn’t have fun without Zeke, or that she feels a lack of purpose without him. It’s just that she doesn’t know how to lead a fulfilling home life without his presence. She misses cooking for someone else, she misses drinking with someone else, she misses getting into bed with someone else. She misses waking up next to someone she loves.

She starts to cry into her hands, and she doesn’t pay her food much mind.

She does that a lot these days.

A few days later, she dips into her savings to buy herself a treat. It’s nothing more than a slice of cake from the village’s bakery, but it makes her feel better for a few minutes. She eats it alone at the table, where she has also decided to treat herself to a glass of the peach wine, and stares down at the letters she has received from Zeke in the past year. There are five of them, each one as vague as the next, and she’s not sure she even knows what’s going on. She knows he’s fighting another war, and he’s allied himself with some Archanean prince. She knows that there’s some sort of tyrant emperor they’re trying to stop. And, really, this is  _ all _ she knows. The letters are mostly to communicate to her that he is safe, alive, thinking of her.

_ You have been exposed to enough war, my sweet. I shall spare you the details of this one. _

Tatiana wishes he had taken her with him.

But he’s right when he says she has been exposed to enough war. Tatiana was far removed from the frontlines, but she still saw it, and what she saw was almost too much. The blood, the entrails, the fire, the anguish. When Tatiana goes to sleep, she sees the faces of the soldiers she wasn’t able to save and the enemies she had to dispose of herself. She sees blood on her hands, seeped into her skirts, and she hears people screaming. She hears the laugh of an arcanist, the wailing of someone in the distance, and she sees a soldier above her, a sword pulled back to strike her down.

Tatiana feels Nuibaba’s hand curling around her neck.

And she wakes up, alone in a bed that should not be only her own, gasping and clawing at the covers as she chokes on nothing. She writhes, twisting this way and that, dripping cold sweat. She stands the panic thrumming through her body as long as she can, until she can’t take it and rushes outside, where she doubles over and is sick behind her house. She holds her stomach and vomits, so deeply unsettled by  _ everything _ in her life, and stays hunched over when she’s done, panting and wheezing.

Tatiana’s knees feel weak. After stumbling a short distance away from where she was sick, she drops to her knees and sobs. She hunches down, weak and weary, and wonders why this has happened to her. Why she met the most amazing person she has ever known, only for him to be stripped from her. She wonders why she has to suffer through the trauma of the war on her own, without anyone to support her. She wonders why she has to feel lonely, why she has to manage the house on her own, why she is the one who is always left behind. 

She sobs, disgusted at what a mess her face is, and keeps crying until she feels a gentle nudge at the top of her head. Abruptly she stops, sniffling as she blinks up at Zeke’s horse. The beast leans in and softly snuffles her hair, and Tatiana laughs a little through her remaining tears. She reaches up and wraps her arms around his nose, and the horse lies down with her. It curves its body around her; she feels a little comforted. She leans back against him, thankful the night air is warm, and dozes off underneath the stars.

Hoping is all she can do now.

* * *

* * *

Tatiana is coming up on the sixteenth month of being on her own when something peculiar happens.

It’s laundry day, and the air is crisp and warm. She washes her clothes with some of her neighbors at the village’s stream, and is annoyed to find herself envious at the amount some of them have to wash. Clothes that are not only their own, but those belonging to their family as well. Tatiana decides that she’s in a bad mood, and today is not the best day to make small talk. She puts her head down and washes her clothes and her bedding in the river, diligently scrubbing away the dirt and sweat. No one bothers her.

Tatiana doesn’t mind the laundry, so long as she’s doing it with someone else. But on her own, it’s a pain to get out the laundry lines, and it’s annoying to throw the sheets up on the line and clip them down when she’s as short as she is. She’s frustrated the entire time she does the laundry, but she eventually pauses, takes a deep breath, smooths her hands down and over her apron, and tries to calm herself. Getting upset at a blouse isn’t going to do anything for her. She’s an adult now, not a child.

The grass is lush underneath her bare feet. The summer is still going strong, so her clothes should dry out fairly quickly, before the moon comes out. Tatiana collects a stool from the inside of the house and stands on it so she can clip pins down onto the sheets and her skirts. She sees the fishermen in the distance when she looks over the lines down to the village’s small docks, and smiles a little as she sees them whooping and hollering as they pull a sizable net of fish out of one of the boats. The people around her are happy, she thinks, so she has no business being unhappy.

But she thinks this, and then there’s an undeniable ache in her heart. She averts her eyes from the fishermen and pulls a pillowcase taught, removing any wrinkles from it before she clips it up. She misses Zeke, and the feeling is steadily consuming her with each passing month she goes without him.

Maybe he really is dead.

The thought brings tears to her eyes. She wobbles backwards on the stool, light-headed, but hears a soft shout of, “Careful there!” before there is a hand on the small of her back. Tatiana blinks and expels a few tears from her eyes, then looks down to find a neighbor, gazing up at her with concern. She blinks again, then smiles despite herself as she descends from the stool. He’s holding a letter that she presumes is for her. Her heart is skipping a few beats as she observes it, and while she tells herself not to get her hopes up because it’s most likely only from Alm or Clair or Forsyth, she still can’t help herself from feeling hopeful.

“For me?” she asks.

The neighbor holds out the letter to her. “I was doing some trading in town when someone at the guildhall said this had come for you. They were gonna send someone with it later, but I brought it instead.” He lowers his head and regards it with wide eyes. “You think it’s from him?”

Tatiana takes the letter in both of her hands. The envelope is pure white, though dinged and crumpled from its journey, and is sealed shut with golden wax that is stamped with a symbol she doesn’t recognize. She crinkles her nose and frowns. Most of Zeke’s letters have been sent in cheap envelopes on cheap parchment: the only things he could afford while on the road. This looks regal and elegant, but it doesn’t look like it’s come from Alm, either. “I don’t know.”

The neighbor hums and regards the letter, then stands straight and tips his hat to her. “Well, hoping it’s good news. See you later, Tatiana.”

Tatiana smiles and waves as he goes. When he’s down the road a sufficient amount, she moves back to the stool and takes a heavy seat on it, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she regards the letter. With a furrowed brow, she places her thumb underneath the wax seal and pushes it away from the paper. The wax tumbles into her lap, but she doesn’t pay it mind. The letter has her too curious. She reaches in and pulls out three pages of paper, unfolds them, and starts to read.

Tatiana faints for real when she’s done, and when she later wakes up in the church, the letter is still gripped so tightly in her hands she has nearly ripped it.

* * *

* * *

“It’s really from Zeke?”

Tatiana sits in one of the sitting rooms in the palace. Alm sits across from her, Zeke’s letter in his hands, looking nearly as amazed as she still feels. It’s been two weeks since she got it, and she still feels dazed and unsure that it’s reality. However, having Alm read it and repeat its contents back to her, she feels so sure of it that she is giddy.

“It’s his handwriting,” she says. “I’d know it anywhere.”

Alm looks at her over the top of the letter, then looks back down to it. She watches as his brow furrows. “Well… he just wants you to go to Archanea, because apparently he’s in some position of power there? And he’s sending a boat?” He puts the letter down in his lap. “I don’t know, Tatiana, that sounds… it sounds far-fetched. And you aren’t the type to care about status or titles—”

“I’m not going because he said he has power,” Tatiana puts her hands in her lap and presses her lips. “I’m going because I love him, and if the place I’ll see him again is Archanea, I’d cross any ocean.”

Alm still appears suspicious. He leans forward and sets the letter on the coffee table between them and then sits up straight again. There’s a tray of tea and snacks sitting between them as well, but neither of them have touched it. Tatiana’s leg keeps bouncing, and she worries for a moment that Alm won’t let her go. She doesn’t know  _ how _ he would prevent her from going, but he’s the king, so he’s probably got some tricks up his sleeve.  But then she remembers Alm would never do anything like try to control her, and she relaxes. He does look so worried that it’s annoying her, though; why isn’t he happy that Zeke is alive and well?

“I’m happy to hear he’s alive and well,” Alm says, exactly as though he’s read her thoughts. “I just— I don’t know. Zeke has enemies, so maybe this is a trap.”

“I don’t think Zeke’s enemies are so desperate to get back at him that they’d send a boat to take me to Archanea, just so they can axe-murder me,” she replies. “This—”

“I mean, what if these are enemies from his old life?” Alm interrupts.

Tatiana pauses.

“It’s obvious Zeke is from Archanea. So what if these are his enemies from there? What if—”

“I don’t think Zeke would get caught up in a trap like that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“How can you be so sure it’s a trap?”

They bristle at one another. Tatiana isn’t sure why Alm is so insistent on fighting her. She knows he’s angry at Zeke for leaving her—leaving  _ him— _ behind for over a year, but that’s no reason to lose faith. He must have had a good reason to leave. He wouldn’t just marry her and then leave a month or two later, right?

Right?

“I can’t stop you from going if that’s what you want,” Alm relents. Finally, he leans forward and picks up his coffee, though she’s sure it’s lukewarm now. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Do you need a place to sleep?”

Tatiana smiles and picks up the letter, folding it up to tuck back into her bag. “The boat should be here tomorrow, assuming the letter had the right info. If I could have a room for just a night, that’d be swell.”

Alm doesn’t keep her any longer, mostly because he doesn’t have time. Sir Mycen enters the room but a moment later, politely greets her, then informs Alm that there’s a meeting he needs to attend in fifteen minutes. Forsyth comes to help her carry her things to her room, though she only has a single trunk and a bag. The letter specified that she wouldn’t need to bring many things, and that it would, in fact, be better if she only brought the necessities. Tatiana has a few changes of clothes and some precious objects, but nothing other than that.

Forsyth takes a seat at the guestroom’s table and looks at her, like he too is worried. “How long do you suppose you’ll be in Archanea?”

Tatiana hums and settles her traveling bag atop the trunk, then sits on the other end of it. She lifts her fingers to her chin and thinks, then replies, “I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s really going to happen over there. Zeke says he has… some ‘power,’ but I don’t really know what that means.” She puts her hands in her lap and frowns. “Mostly, I’m just hoping I can go over there and convince him to come home. I— I don’t think there’s anything but bad things for him in Archanea.”

They talk a little while longer before Forsyth leaves her. Tatiana spends the rest of the evening in her room, looking over the books it’s supplied with, and she takes out some sewing from her traveling bag. A few friends such as Clair and Python come to see her before she departs the next morning, and she’s glad they seem nothing but happy for her, rather than paranoid and worried. A maid promises to wake her up early, and she goes to sleep early to ensure she’s prepared to wake up. Though, it’s hard to fall asleep; she feels like a child eagerly awaiting a holiday.

She’s going to see him again. Maybe not soon, because Tatiana imagines that the trip to Archanea is a long one, but she’s going to see him. Tatiana lies awake, staring at the ceiling, and wonders what she’ll even say to him. What does one say to a partner they haven’t seen in 18 months? What does one say to the partner who left them in the night, with only a letter and barely any explanation beforehand?

What will they say to one another?

Tatiana stares at the ceiling, suddenly feeling more angry and pensive than excited.

He left her. Just like that. And she wants to see him more than anything in the world, but she wants him to know how he hurt her. She wants him to know he has a long road to make this up to her. She wants him to know that there is no more of this. No more foreign wars, no more heroics, no more— no more of whatever any of this is. She doesn’t even know.

Tatiana winds up not sleeping well. She reasons that she would’ve had nightmares anyway.

* * *

* * *

Tatiana is already awake when the maid comes for her in the morning. She’s upright in bed, hair disheveled, as she stares down into her lap. The maid enters her room wordlessly and simply moves to draw the drapes back from the window. Tatiana winces at the stream of sunlight that comes through, but adjusts. She reaches up and scrapes her fingers through her tangled hair.

The maid bows politely. “The sailors at the docks think that your ship should be here towards the evening, assuming the waters are smooth. Also, His Majesty King Albein requested you take breakfast with him. When you are ready, I will be outside waiting to escort you.”

Alm, again. She wonders if he has anymore plans to try and talk her out of going.

Tatiana dismisses the maid and gets ready. She doesn’t have any extremely nice clothing with her, but it’s only Alm. She imagines that he won’t be dressed to the nines either. She pulls her nicest dress she’s packed out of her trunk, slips into it, and takes a seat at the vanity in the corner. When she sees her own appearance, she grimaces; it’s more obvious than she would like it to be that she didn’t get any sleep. Her skin is ashen, there are circles under her eyes, and she looks a little clammy. Tatiana reaches for her makeup, hoping that a little foundation will fix her problem. Some mascara and lip paint wouldn’t hurt either.

The maid is waiting just where she said she would when Tatiana steps out of the door. The maid smiles at her and gestures down the hall, and they don’t speak as she escorts her to a sitting room. It’s the same sitting room she was in yesterday, and Tatiana imagines she could have gotten here herself, but this is probably some formality. The maid opens the door for her, gracefully bows as Tatiana steps past her, and excuses herself.

Alm is sitting exactly where he was yesterday, in front of a table and a few plates. He smiles at her when she enters and holds out a hand towards her seat, and she sits. “Sorry I had to hurry off yesterday. I had stuff.”

“I understand,” she replies. She narrows her eyes. “Are you still going to try and tell me I shouldn’t go?”

Alm’s smile quickly turns into a frown. He sighs and leans back in his chair, slumping in a way she imagines is not all that kingly, but is very Alm-like. He looks more like a nineteen-year-old boy than a king, and she feels herself relaxing. “No. I mean, I still think it’s weird, but I know we can trust Zeke. There’s no way he got captured or something, or that anyone but him would know how to find you.” Alm looks down to the table. “I just don’t want you to go.”

_ “Aww.” _

Alm tosses his head. “Don’t ‘aww’ me! I just don’t want any of my friends to go.” He makes an expression, a little bit like a pout. “I just wish we could all stay here together. First Zeke leaves, then Kliff, now you… I guess I just kinda thought that when the war was done, we’d all be… here.”

“I’m gonna come back,” Tatiana insists. “Hopefully with that husband of mine on my heels.”

Alm tucks his chin against a fist, still looking away from her. “I dunno. Why would he bring you all the way to Archanea if he only wants to come right back? This all sounds to me like he wants to stay over there.”

The thought had not occurred to Tatiana. She frowns and doesn’t know what to say, so she just decides to eat. She picks up the empty plate on the table she assumes is for her, and stacks it with some rice, sweet pork, and fried eggs. There’s a mug of thick chocolate on the table as well, but she leaves it there for now. After a moment more of thinking, Alm also turns back towards her and the table and starts to eat his own food. There’s really no need for the two of them to speak; Tatiana is reminded of the times the two of them would eat a piece of bread together in the silent, early mornings, sitting on the outskirts of camp and looking over the frozen Rigelian landscape.

“I’m sure that’s not what it is,” Tatiana says eventually. “Staying in Archanea, I mean. And if that is what he wants… I— I guess I’ll figure it out.”

Alm doesn’t seem to like this answer, but he doesn’t say anything about it. They continue to eat in silence with a stray comment here and there, and when they’re done eating, Alm moves over to her seat and embraces her. Tatiana holds him, slowly pulling her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and silently promises to herself that she will come back.

* * *

* * *

Tatiana spends the rest of the day preparing herself for her boat trip. A couple of soldiers around the castle have told her that the trip to Archanea takes roughly a month, and that in their experience, boat trips are not all that entertaining. She’ll know nobody aboard—she imagines Zeke isn’t coming to get her himself, after all. She finds ways to entertain herself by borrowing some novels from Clair and Lukas both, along with picking up some fabrics and yarns in town. She also comes by a few puzzles, and decides those couldn’t hurt either.

Tatiana feels prepared for her boat trip by the time she’s repacked. She just doesn’t feel prepared to see Zeke.

It’s late in the afternoon when someone knocks on her guest room’s door. Tatiana’s gut twists as she opens the door, fully expecting someone to tell her the ship has arrived and is ready for her, but instead, it is only the maid. In her hands is a letter, and she bows before handing it over to Tatiana.

“For you, ma’am,” she says. “It arrived an hour or so ago.”

Tatiana takes the letter and turns it in her hands, frowning at the unfamiliar handwriting on the back. It indeed has her name upon it, but she couldn’t imagine at a glance who it could be from. “From who?”

The maid shakes her head. “Anonymous source. It doesn’t seem to be unsafe, though—one of our carriers is a mage, and she couldn’t find any trace of magic upon the note.” She looks at Tatiana. “May I assist you with anything this evening?”

“No, but thanks.” Tatiana gives the letter one more quizzical look before nodding to the maid. She leaves with yet another promise that someone will be up for her when the ship is ready to depart. Tatiana turns the letter in her hands again, squinting once more at the handwriting, but it’s still unfamiliar. Frowning, she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and wanders over towards the chamber’s kitchen area.

She sits in one of the chairs at the table and continues to study the letter, which looks like it has been through the wringer. The paper of the envelope was once an off-white color, but now it’s yellowing. It appears crumpled from travel, and the wax seal keeping it shut is starting to crumble. She would normally be uneasy opening such a thing, but if someone familiar with curses and the like has given it the clear, she trusts them.

Tatiana puts her finger into the seam of the envelope and tears it open. The brittle paper splits under her thumb easily, and inside of it, she finds two pages. She sets the envelope down on the table and studies the papers, which are just as crumpled as the envelope. When she unfolds them, she’s glad to see that the writing is still legible and that she doesn’t feel the hold of any dark magic. She holds the pages in her hand and leans back in the chair, then promptly leans forward again when she starts to read.

Tatiana’s hands begin to shake.

* * *

* * *

Tatiana knows Palla of Archanea only passingly. They met once or twice after the war, shortly before she and her sisters had returned to their homeland. Palla seemed like a kind woman to Tatiana, with a good head on her shoulders and an honest heart in her chest. The one thing that had bothered Tatiana about Palla was that she would often give Zeke long, curious glances, as though trying to study him for as long as she could without appearing intrusive. Tatiana remembers feeling a little jealous, at first—wasn’t it obvious that he was spoken for? What business did this person have staring at him like that? But, then she noticed that it wasn’t just Palla, but her two sisters as well, and their expressions were more wary than admiring.

Tatiana had blocked that from her mind. She’d done so because she’d immediately assumed that the three somehow knew Zeke before he was Zeke, and the stress of that in the aftermath of the war had been so much, she’d simply willed herself to tuck the thought into the corner of her mind. She’d nearly forgotten about Palla of Archanea altogether.

Until she got a letter from her, that is.

The ship arrives in the late evening, someone tells her, but that they need to restock on supplies and won’t be ready to go until the morning. Tatiana smiles at the person who brings her this news, hoping her smile isn’t too stiff. She hopes it’s not obvious as to how tightly she is clutching the letter in her hands. She hopes she has read the words wrong, despite the four times she has read them in the past twenty minutes.

_ Miss Tatiana, I hope my letter finds you in good health. _

Tatiana puts the letter down on the table and paces the room, nervously fiddling with an end of her hair. Her body feels hot and her chest feels tight, and she thinks she is truly going to have a panic attack unless she lies down.

_ I understand you have been without the company of your husband for some months now. I would like to assure you that he is well— _

Tatiana’s breathing starts to come quicker, and she stumbles over a fold in the carpet as she makes for the bedroom. Barely, she catches herself on the wall, but the strength in her knees nearly gives out. She swallows and steadies herself, then places a hand over her chest. Her heartbeat is ruthless against her ribs.

_ —in a manner of speaking, that is. _

She flops down onto the bed when she gets to the bedroom, curling her fingers into the quilts. Again she swallows, and she shuts her eyes as she tries to calm her breathing. She tries to think about something besides the letter out on the kitchen table: Hot drinks, tasty food, the faces of her friends. These things normally calm her down, but she can’t stop herself from curling up on the bed. She feels sick.

_ The continent of Archanea has been in turmoil for some time. Nearly a decade ago, our homeland found itself faced with an ancient evil that we had thought gone for good—a draconic creature not unlike your late gods, Duma and Mila. _

Tatiana turns onto her back and stares outside at the moonlight. When she sits up, she can see the harbor in the distance. Her heart keeps beating, so hard that it feels painful.

_ This evil went by the name of Medeus. Upon his revival, he rebuilt his empire of old and started to advance across the continent, conquering all he could in the name of subjugating humanity. The monarchs of many human nations swore their loyalty to him, either out of fear or ambition. One such country is called Grust: a militaristically-advanced island nation. Grust, at that time, boasted the strongest knights in the world, referred to as the Sable Order. _

Her hands rest upon her face, and she shuts her eyes. The letter feels like a fiction, but it’s too detailed to be so. What purpose would it serve for Palla to feed her this information in any case?

_ What is spoken between you and your husband is none of my business. He may or may not have already told you that he was the general of the Sable Order. His true name is Camus, and back then, we all feared him. He brought the kingdom of Archanea to its knees in a single night, though he spared the youngest princess. The rumor I have been told is that they would later fall in love. _

A princess. Tatiana should have known. She should have known that he loved a princess. How is she supposed to measure up to that? How is one clumsy, stupid village girl supposed to replace a princess?

_ Many details of this story elude me. But, I am told by the princess herself that it was Camus who helped her escape Medeus, at the cost of his own freedom. She says he was imprisoned; tortured. _

Tatiana knew that. Torture is the only way to explain the scars on his body. Torture is the only one to explain the way he sometimes wakes up screaming in the night, begging some figure from his past to have mercy.

_ Despite this, he stood against us, the Archanean League. Our leader, Prince Marth of Altea, felled General Camus. Or, so we thought. It would seem that instead of dying, he somehow wound up on your beach without even a recollection of his name. I cannot imagine how, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. I doubt he knows, either. _

It’s late. Tatiana still can’t fully process the letter. Her breathing has calmed, even though she’s still shaking like a leaf in the wind. She gets up, slips out of her dress, and finds a clean nightgown that a servant has undeniably left for her. She puts it on and pulls her hair out of the collar. She pauses as she starts to pack her dress into the trunk, and then leaves the bedroom.

_ I’ll spare you the long, gritty details. This is as short as I can make the story for you, my lady: _

Tatiana picks up the letter from the table, folds it back up, and then once more so that it is in quarters.

_ Lady Nyna married a neighboring prince named Lord Hardin. As I understand it, he wholly loved her, but her heart still remained in the clutches of General Camus, whom we all thought deceased. This created… complications, to say the least. _

There is a small pocket sewn into the inside of her trunk, carefully hidden from sight unless one knows where to look. Tatiana finds it after smoothing her fingers over the fabric, searching for the edge, and then she tucks the letter inside. She ensures it’s hidden well, places some clothing near the pocket, and shuts her trunk. The locks click as she snaps them into place.

_ Lord Hardin turned to alcohol, as the rumors say. A mage, loyal to Medeus, somehow got close to him in this dark time. Using a power we call the Darksphere, he corrupted Lord Hardin. A man who once was just and noble became as depraved as the worst tyrants in history, almost in a night. _

Tatiana, lips pressed tight, pulls the covers back from her temporary bed. She climbs in, pulls the quilts back over herself, and lets her head hit the pillow. She’s shaking still, and she feels panicked and confused, but she’s also exhausted. Her lack of sleep from the night before sinks upon her, and she feels her eyes start to close. She’s confused, frightened, but she’ll deal with it in the morning.

_ He ruled Archanea with an iron fist, and inflicted suffering on neighboring countries. The one to suffer most was Camus’ native Grust. I imagine it was this, along with hearsay of Lady Nyna’s disappearance from the public eye, that caused your husband to return to Archanea. _

Somehow. She’ll deal with it somehow.

_ He’s been fighting alongside us for the past year. He’s been invaluable help. He’s worn a mask. Truthfully, hardly any of us knew him to be Camus. None of us knew him well, after all. _

Tatiana sleeps, though it isn’t restful. She has nightmares, but she can’t recall what they’re about when she wakes up, mere hours later. She supposes they were the same-old-same-old: War, blood, fire, death. She’s always happy when she wakes up and cannot recall what she feared during the night. As of right now, she has enough to be afraid of while awake.

_ Two months ago at the time of this letter’s writing, the Archanean League was successful in overthrowing Lord Hardin, who had become completely corrupted by this Darksphere. It’s unfortunate, but death was the only escape we could offer him at that point. _

It’s six in the morning when someone comes knocking on Tatiana’s door. She leaves the bedroom and cracks the entrance open, peering out warily. A guard she doesn’t recognize stands there, smiling brightly, and he tells her that the boat for Archanea is prepared and waiting for her. The captain would prefer to leave as soon as possible. Tatiana thanks him with a stiff smile she can barely muster and promptly shuts the door as he turns to leave. Her mind is racing as all of the details of the letter come racing back to her, and her heart starts to pound once more.

_ All seemed well. The League was on track to defeat Medeus, now that Lord Hardin was out of the picture. Your husband seemed close to his goal to rescue Lady Nyna. _

She hates that one of the only things she can wonder is if Zeke still loves this Nyna. For what other reason would he go trekking across an ocean for her? But, then again, if he still loves her and went back to Archanea with her, what purpose does he have in bringing Tatiana to Archanea to see him? She doesn’t understand what’s going on.

_ And now I must say, Miss Tatiana: we made a grave mistake. _

She doesn’t need to look good, but she needs to do something to keep herself busy as she tries to stall. She sits at the vanity and stares at her pale reflection in the mirror as she pins her hair up. She’s trying to figure out whether or not she should go and get on that boat.

_ We didn’t understand. We didn’t listen when he told us he didn’t want it. We thought we were doing him a service by letting him keep the Darksphere. It makes the wielder invulnerable, you see, and we all knew he had a wife back home he wanted to return to. _

What happens if she doesn’t get on the boat?

_ Looking back upon it, there were signs for weeks. We just didn’t understand. _

What happens if she does get on the boat?

_ We surely are paying the price now. _

Tatiana has to get on the boat. Most of what Palla has written to her sounds like nonsense, but if there is one thing she understands for certain, it’s that Zeke needs her. There’s something wrong with him, and he needs her. She needs him. She needs to see him and understand what’s going on, why he wants her with him. She wants the truth about this Camus from his own mouth, not from that of a near-stranger. Tatiana believes she deserves that, after all he’s put her through by going off to war again without her.

_ It would seem that the Darksphere has corrupted him in the same way it corrupted Lord Hardin. I cannot say all the details for certain, but he has staked a claim on the land Lord Hardin left behind. _

A soldier carries Tatiana’s trunk for her down to the harbor while she carries her bags. She passes friends on the way out, Alm included, and hopes she doesn’t look terrified. She knows some of them are looking at her oddly, a little curious, and so she’s pretty sure she’s doing the worst job ever at concealing her anxiety. But, nobody stops her, though they do hug her a little more tightly for a little longer than she thinks they normally would. Alm holds to her especially tight, squeezing her with so much strength she thinks she might pop. She laughs, genuinely, as she holds him back, and wonders if she’ll be making good on her promise to return to Valentia any time soon.

_ I hope this letter reaches you. I’m not sure what he’ll do now. Truthfully, I’m not certain what purpose this letter serves. I just felt that you, above all, had a right to know about him. _

“You are Tatiana?” the ship’s captain asks her. She has nearly the same accent that Zeke does. For some reason, it sends her stomach sinking down to the cobblestone of the harbor.

_ To be warned about him. _

Tatiana smiles, hoping for the umpteenth time that day that it doesn’t look too fake. Her only armor right now is smiling. That’s it. Feigning ignorance is all she can do to throw anyone off her scent at this point.

_ Should he make contact with you, Miss Tatiana, I would implore you to be careful. Don’t give in to him. He isn’t the man you know. Dark magic does things to a psyche that are truly horrifying. _

“Welcome aboard.” The captain extends a hand towards the ship. “We hope you’ll find your travel to Archanea comfortable. We’ve been tasked with giving you the royal treatment, should you desire it.”

“How long will it take to arrive?” Tatiana asks.

“It took us about thirty-four days to arrive here, ma’am. Hopefully, it will take roughly the same amount for us to return.” The captain’s lips quirk up in an amused expression. “I certainly hope you’ve brought something to entertain yourself with.”

_ I would urge you to not make contact with him. _

“Books and puzzles,” Tatiana replies easily as the captain escorts her up the gangplank onto the ship. “Hopefully it’s enough to keep me occupied for a month.”

_ Please, don’t trust him. _

“I fear we won’t be able to keep you entertained if it doesn’t! Managing a ship for this long of a journey is hard work.”

_ If he finds you and exposes you to the Darksphere, don’t listen to whatever they say. _

The ship is grand. Crew are carrying crates, pulling on ropes, adjusting sails. They all give Tatiana curious glances as she walks past with the captain, and some even stop to bow to her. She shrinks away from these people, uncertain of what she’s done to receive such formality. None of them appear interested in speaking to her, though, and the captain is urging her down some stairs in any case. She puts her hand on a doorknob, turns it, and opens it for Tatiana. The room is comfortable, sporting a large bed, plenty of space, and a desk in the corner. It looks so nice, and yet Tatiana cannot help but feel like someone is going to come out of the shadows at her with a dagger.

_ We are so sorry we allowed this to happen to him. Once more, make no contact with your husband. We will do all within our power to free him from the influence he is under, before the damage is irreparable. I will write and keep you informed, but do not write back. Doing so may put you in danger. _

“If you need anything, just speak to one of my crew,” the captain invites. “You may go anywhere you please. Someone will come get you for meals when they’re ready, and we’ll be sure to keep you updated on our arrival time.”

Tatiana smiles. This feels awfully plush, for something so dangerous.

_ Please, remain safe in Valentia. Don’t go anywhere. _

The captain makes for the door, but pauses on her way out. “I look forward to reuniting you with your husband soon, my lady. He spoke so highly of you when we were organizing this journey.”

Her heart stops in her chest, but she just keeps smiling. “I— I’m excited to see him. Thank you.”

_ Sincerely, _

The captain smiles and then shuts the door behind her, leaving Tatiana and her things alone.

_ Palla _

Tatiana rests a hand on her trunk, repeating the letter’s contents in her mind over and over. She falls to her knees with a dull  _ thunk! _ , takes a trembling breath, and fights the urge to scream.

Never before has Tatiana felt so in the dark, so confused. If she didn’t know what to say to Ezekiel before, she certainly does not know now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls wash your hands and take care of yourself tatiana and i don't want you to get sick :(


End file.
